


The Cabin Boy

by BiancaCastafarina



Category: Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-10
Updated: 2012-09-25
Packaged: 2017-11-09 13:38:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiancaCastafarina/pseuds/BiancaCastafarina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tintin/Allan. Sometimes it is difficult to see beneath the surface, and once you realize what's going on you're already trapped. A story about an unhealthy relationship, manipulation, and abuse that can happen to anyone, even a smart young man like Tintin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Allan Thompson, _de facto_ sea captain and professional smuggler, thrived on uncertainty.

It was in uncertain times like these when people tended to consume most of the wares which he was about to make a fortune with. In fact, most of the whisky he'd illegally traded had ended up in the United States right after the disastrous stock market crash three years ago. But as security had gotten tighter and inland production of moonshine liquor had soared despite increasingly strict enforcements of Prohibition laws, Allan had focused on a different source of income: opium. Harvested from the finest _papaver somniferum_ in Afghanistan and Persia, refined and packaged in India, the larger part of the drug was sold in China but there was still a great demand in Europe and North Africa. It was the most precious and never talked about cargo on the _Karaboudjan_ , expertly hidden in tins of crab meat.

Indeed, these were uncertain times! The American stock market disaster had dragged most of Europe into a crisis as well, in addition to the problems they were already facing. Italy was being held firmly in the vice-like grip of Fascism under Benito Mussolini; Russians were suffering under Stalin's Communist dictatorship; and Germany had been forced to its knees by rampant unemployment and poverty, its inexperienced and haphazardly thrown-together Weimar Republic government hardly able to establish soup kitchens for the starving masses, let alone capable of paying the enormous debt stipulated in the Treaty of Versailles.

All that was missing from this hopeless scenario were the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

Allan sat in his cabin, making a list of the posts that needed to be filled on his ship. They would have no problems finding skilled workers here in Oostende, Belgium, where unemployment was as common as anywhere else in Europe. They needed a caulker's mate, a carpenter, a radio operator's assistant...

„A Captain's steward", Tom the sailor said. Though not blessed with a sharp mind – perhaps precisely because of that – he was Allan's closest and most trusted assistant.

„A steward?" Allan raised his eyebrows. „What for? This ain't the 1830s!"

„I'm tire' o' cleaning up them whisky bottles he throws a'me. Whole corridor is reekin' already."

Allan sighed. His former friend and _de jure_ captain of the _Karaboudjan_ , Archibald Haddock, was a hopeless drunkard. But to supply him with whisky and to watch out for his constantly changing moods was a small price to pay for the command of this ship.

Tom shrugged. „Then a cabin boy, ma'be. S'mone for them dirty jobs no one wants to do."

„Mh-hm", Allan grunted, writing it down. It was actually an outdated job, no longer needed. The demands on a modern ship were rather complex nowadays, the minor tasks being assigned to experienced sailors; nevertheless hiring a cabin boy might prove a good idea. He would have to invent a few extra tasks for that new cabin boy, but at least they'd give a poor young man a job. Surely that made a difference in depressing times like these.

.

.

.

Tintin had made his decision out of impatience. He was tired of waiting for them to allow him to chase his dream. It had sounded like a splendid opportunity for a young man who dreamed of becoming a reporter, the internship at the Brussels publishing house of the newspaper _Le Vingtième Siècle_. They had even hired him as an assistant and courier after a few months, and for the first time in his life Tintin was earning his own living.

All his life he had dreamed of seeing the world, discovering exotic places known only from books and the occasional motion picture. His work at the newspaper offices was the closest he'd ever gotten to actual adventure which was especially frustrating because true discovery was just within reach.

They had sent a reporter to Soviet Russia, and Tintin had begged his boss to let him come along, but he refused, saying Tintin was too young at age eighteen.

Then they sent a reporter to China, and still Tintin was not allowed to go. Afterward, another reporter was sent to the United States to write about Al Capone; and still his boss insisted that Tintin was too young.

He was absolutely ready for that kind of work! It was frustrating and discouraging, and suddenly Tintin had been seized by a great fear: that he would spend his entire life in this dusty office space, surrounded by old newspapers, bored secretaries and the only thing dear to him: his little snow white terrier, Milou. One day he would wake up as an old man, white-haired and frail, and realize he had not lived his life at all.

No, he would see the world. And he would write about it.

So when he had seen the advert in the harbour, calling for various workers and a cabin boy aboard a great freighter with destinations all over Europe and Africa, excitement had surged through him and he had decided he would try and apply for work on this ship.

.

.

.

Allan noticed him first - the red-haired youth whose slight stature, smooth face and innocent looks made him stand out among the crowd of sailors and workers. They regarded him with a mixture of half contempt, half curiosity on their rugged, masculine faces. Who was that boy with the little white dog and what was he doing here on a ship that needed the strength and skill of grown men?

They stood on the deck, encircling Allan who sat at a small table with a list, questioning the applicants and taking notes. There were many more than he had anticipated, and they were all desperate for work. But for a moment he'd forgotten them, captivated by the pale, freckled hands of the boy standing in front of him. Soft hands with slender fingers that looked like they'd never had to do a day of arduous work.

„Name and job you're applying for?" Allan repeated the same question to every single one of the men.

„They call me Tintin. I'm applying for the post of cabin boy on your ship."

Allan grinned. Upon closer inspection, this lad had a lovely face. Large, green eyes with long, light lashes; a cute, slightly upturned nose; and a red-tinged mouth with small but full lips. It was one of the most beautiful faces Allan had ever seen on a male, and he'd seen many in the brothels of the world.

„Aren't you a wee bit too young to be on a ship?"

„I'm nineteen, sir. And I can do any kind of work."

„Nineteen?" Allan repeated with a tone that implied _I don't buy your bullshit,_ pausing for effect, just to see how that greenhorn would react.

Calmly, Tintin reached into the inner pocket of his trench coat, pulling out something which he shoved straight in front of Allan's nose: his I.D. Card which identified him as Martin Augustin Remi, born in Tournai on December 28, 1912.

Allan nodded quietly. Indeed, he was already nineteen. Old enough for the job. What objections could he possibly bring up? A quick glance across the other applicants told him that there was no one else who would qualify as a cabin 'boy'.

„All right... Tintin. You're hired."

 

Tintin's Diary

March 4th, 1932

_I bought a new notebook with fine paper especially for this diary because I hope it will motivate me to write about my new work daily._

_I cannot believe how easy it was to get this job! Truly, Fortune has favoured me! To think of the exotic destinations to which the_ Karaboudjan _is regularly headed – Bagghar, Cairo, Tripolis, Tanger, Fez...! Even as a reporter-in-spe I fail to find words to describe the amazing excitement that is still making me dizzy now._

_I haven't really understood yet what function Allan Thompson has on this ship – I've been a bit too excited to listen to every word he said. From what I can tell he seems to be the captain, commanding everyone else, so I will make sure to always address him as 'sir'. He seems quite an authoritative figure, used to giving orders. But he allowed me to take Milou along, provided the little dog behaves well. Someone who likes animals is probably a decent person. Anyway - tomorrow I shall ask him, like a true reporter, what exactly it is he is doing. Hopefully he will be able to make time for me as I've got so many questions. And of course I am wondering what kind of work I will be expected to do. With that meagre payment I expect a minimum of interesting tasks such as operating machines. How I would love to learn the radio code! But if they make me clean the toilets I can live with that. What is there for cabin boys to do nowadays?_

_But now it is getting late and I am not supposed to use the electrical lamp in my cabin after 22:00, so I will go to bed now. See, I even have my own cabin! It is tiny, but comfortable enough. This is not the 19th century anymore when cabin boys had to sleep on the grimy, rat-infested wooden plank floor of sailships, surrounded by the hammocks of a dozen men._

_I am a fortunate young man, living in modern times when never before it has been so easy to see and discover the world!_


	2. Chapter 2

Allan had assumed that his new cabin boy possessed no higher education whatsoever but Tintin had surprised him by speaking English with the crew, a colorful bunch made up mainly of Brits, Scots and Irishmen. Considering how many questions Tintin had asked him about the ship – dear Lord, he needed to be careful lest he accidentally reveal the existence of the secret opium cargo! - Allan was not so sure about the identity of this innocent-looking youth anymore. What if he was a goverment spy, or an undercover investigator? But then, such a person wouldn't interrogate him so blatantly, would he?

„So tell me about you", Allan said, inhaling his cigarette and blowing a cloud of smoke into the already stale air. They sat in his cabin, sipping black tea, and Tintin had brought his little mutt along. Not quite a charmer, that dog. When Allan had tried to caress Milou, the dog had growled with unconcealed hostility. Tintin had apologized. „I'm sorry, sir. Usually he likes everyone. I don't know what's the matter with him today."

„Well, nevermind." Allan waved his hand dismissingly. „But d'you know what? Drop the 'sir'."

Tintin seemed surprised. „Oh... Very well."

„Just call me Allan, okay?" He gave him a comradely pat on the shoulder. „We're friends, not lord and servant!" He laughed; and Tintin, although a little hesitant at first, joined in the merry mood.

Further conversation revealed that the boy was not as shy as he appeared. He told Allan all about his past: how he'd been abandoned as a baby at the Saint-Maurice Boy's Orphanage in Tournai, how he had taught himself English and German in addition to his native languages Dutch and French; how he'd become an intern at _Le Vingtième Siècle_ , and his plans of becoming an explorer and reporter.

„You're a bright one", Allan said, studying Tintin's pretty face in the warm orange light of the carbon-thread lightbulb. „A special kid. Ever considered attending university?"

„I've got no money for that."

„They'd give you a scholarship."

„Those tend to be available only for courses I have no interest in. My only strength, to be honest, are the languages."

Allan wondered how Tintin looked underneath that bulky, slightly too large trenchcoat and the timeworn blue jumper with its ragged collar edge. Did the boy have those adorable freckles elsewhere on his body too? Perhaps on his shoulders and arms?

But he would have to take it slow. Many young men weren't too curious about learning the art of love from an older man. And even if Tintin was interested he was certainly not one who was easy to have. Allan would have to win his trust first.

„So you're Catholic?" Allan squeezed out the remains of his third cigarette in the ashtray.

Tintin nodded. „Yes, sir – um, Allan. But not the sort of good Christian I'd like to be. I'm doubting too much. Asking too many questions. I think my faith is compromised, not as pure as it once was."

„Well, who's a saint anyway?"

„You'd be surprised. There are people like that. I knew one such person, the Abbé Fournier." He paused, looking thoughful.

„Who's that?" Allan's interest was sincere.

Tintin looked utterly serious and earnest. „One of my teachers. He passed away last winter. He was... was..." He cast his gaze downward.

„So he, um..." Allan mumbled, confused at the sudden change in Tintin's demeanour. Was the boy crying? No, he wasn't, was he? He could not see Tintin's eyes. „He was a... saint?"

„He was inspiring." Tintin wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

„A good man, right?" Allan said. „We all need someone like that in our lives. Was he something like a father to you?"

Tintin was still looking down onto the floor. His shoulders were slightly trembling.

 _Oh dear,_ Allan thought. He leaned in closer toward him, and hugged him awkwardly. At first the lad did not respond, stiff and tense in Allan's embrace, then he buried his face in the wool of Allan's sweater, clutching his sleeve, and sobbed.

„There, there", Allan murmured, caressing Tintin's ginger hair. His other hand rested on Tintin's back, and he found himself amazed how dainty the young was man's figure was. He wanted to press him closer, to rub against him, and the mere thought almost gave him an erection. He thanked whatever deities ruled the world that they spared him such an embarrassment – for now.

He lowered his hand a little until it rested on the small of Tintin's back, and pulled the lad closer to him, not really attempting to comfort him but rather to feel his warm, youthful body. He would eventually have Tintin in his bed, teach him what joys a man could give him. He'd make him enjoy a big, hard cock up his sweet little ass. And Tintin would cry with pleasure and beg for more... and it would be him, Allan, who would be the one to satisfy him. _Now don't get carried away_ , he scolded himself, _maybe that little ginger devil already has years of experience literally under his belt._

They separated, and Tintin hastily stood up, wiping his nose. His expression was now forced, stoic. „I'm fine", he said. „Nevermind me. I have to go now. Thanks for the tea... Allan." His eyes were still red and moist.

„You're welcome."

.

.

.

Tintin found it impossible to explain why Milou was not fond of Allan. Usually the snow-white little terrier got along with everyone, but acted openly hostile toward Allan. _Maybe it's the smell of tobacco._ Allan did not seem to be a bad person.

No, he was actually a wonderful employer to Tintin. He never made Tintin do the tiresome, unsavory and strenuous work, preferring to delegate that to sailors whom he did not particularly like. Tintin was assigned the easier work such as peeling potatoes and washing vegetables in the kitchen, scrubbing the deck, dusting the cabins, and telling Milou to hunt down the rats. In his spare time he helped himself to books from Allan's library.

Tintin still chided himself for having shown weakness in front of his boss, crying when he'd remembered the Abbé Fournier. But Tintin couldn't help it. It had been the second time someone had abandoned him – first his parents, now the abbot; although the latter had been very old, always close to death's door and everyone knew it. He had worked at the orphanage and had been like a father to Tintin; the only person whom Tintin had ever trusted enough to know he could tell him anything and would not be judged. A wise man, indeed. Abbé Fournier had already been old when Tintin was a baby; and he'd died half a year ago at the ripe age of ninety-seven.

To show his feelings had made him look vulnerable. But perhaps that was fine with Allan. He had not seemed to mind him at all, being careful and even protective, and his embrace, albeit unexpected, had been comforting. It had been a long, long time since anyone had ever held Tintin like that.

And he longed for it. He wanted more of it. A part of him was afraid, telling him to stay away from Allan – because what if Tintin was _destined_ to be abandoned? He knew it sounded silly, but if his parents had simply left him, then anyone could. He'd already realized this when he was only a child.

If he got too attached to Allan, the despair from abandonment would be too great.

 

 

Tintin's Diary – March 8, 1932

_I hope Allan does not think me a sissy. Altough he is so polite and generous, who knows what he is really thinking? I have a hard time figuring out his intentions. Why does he tell me I am „special"? If he only knew I really would like to be „special" for him – but I could never tell him that. I'm perhaps not meant to be so close, so „special" to anyone, not even to God, although the priests kept telling me otherwise. If my own parents can abandon me, so can God, and if I can't trust God, then whom?_

_But a sissy, I am not. I hope to prove it to Allan as soon as the opportunity presents itself._

_Actually, there has been an opportunity. I just didn't seize it quickly enough. Yesterday, one of the sailors squeezed my bottom in front of all the others and Allan saw it, whereupon he assaulted the groper with a hard slap straight into the face before I even had a chance to protest. He seemed furious and left the guy there with a bleeding nose, and everyone was staring. Eventually Allan calmed down and said, „This ain't the 1840s anymore. Cabin boys are off limits. We're civilized people. And whoever lays a hand upon Tintin will be punished."_

_My heart was beating a little faster as though I was some fairytale damsel in distress who'd just been saved by the knight in shining armour. A silly idea, but that's how it felt. It is a very tempting fantasy to have someone like that at my side. What if there was someone I could simply trust no matter what, someone who would always stay with me?_

_I really want to trust Allan, but I still don't understand why Milou dislikes him after all he's done for me._

_It's just a feeling and I'm not sure it's valid, but I really have a sense of being „special" when I'm with Allan. He is a rude, gruff personality with everyone else, but never with me. To me he's always kind and generous._

_._

_._

_._

The deck was deserted at the crack of dawn but that was precisely why the work had to be done now. Tintin knelt on the floor of the Karaboudjan, scrubbing it with a sharp-smelling solution of soda and vinegar essence. He was almost done. Then he would have the entire evening for himself.

Footsteps behind him made him turn around. With some concern he recognized Tom, the plain-faced sailor in the blue sweater who had molested him yesterday.

„ _Salut_ , little Frenchman." Tom grinned.

„I'm Belgian."

„Whatever." He stepped closer, and Tintin noticed there was still some dried blood caked to Tom's nostrils. „I'm sorry 'bout earlier. How'bout a drink? Lemme invite ya, t'make up."

It was a crass advance, obvious even to Tintin's limited experience, and he frowned. From that single grope Tom's intentions had been clear. „No, thanks", Tintin replied, his expression stern. „Please, leave me. I've got to work."

„Ya need the money, d'ya?" Tom crouched down next to Tintin, looking him straight into the face.

Tintin did not understand.

„See, d'ya want to earn a little extra?" Tom reached out to caress Tintin's cheek.

„What?" Tintin stared at him, pulling away from the unwelcome touch. Surely he did not mean...?

„Spend a night with me. Ya won't regret it."

Tintin dropped the scrubbing brush, and felt his face heat up. Hopefully Tom could not see him blush in the weak light of the sunset. „I'm not that kind of boy! Leave me!"

For a moment Tom seemed ready to contradict, his gaze steadily holding Tintin's. His lips were pressed tightly together as though he was holding back angry words.

Finally, he stood up, and shrugged. „All right." He left, and Tintin exhaled with relief.


	3. Chapter 3

Allan knew that by merely listening to Tintin he had already accomplished plenty. The boy would feel closer to him the more information he shared about his past, and in return Allan would tell him an invented story of his own. It would create the impression that their relationship was more intimate than logic and reason could substantiate.

"I know how you feel", Allan said when Tintin had mentioned how he hadn't gotten over the death of Abbé Fournier yet. "I once lost someone, too."

They were sitting at the tiny desk in Allan's cabin, relaxing after a day of work aboard the _Karaboudjan_ , and he had offered Tintin whisky and poured him a glass - without even waiting for his answer - but Tintin barely drank any, only taking a sip from time to time for the sake of politeness. Getting him drunk would most likely not work. Maybe on another occasion Tintin could be persuaded to drink more.

"You did?" Tintin asked, curiosity aroused. He was clearly longing for a connection, for some sort of bond, although he tried not to show it – he was probably afraid of appearing vulnerable. _If only he knew how vulnerable he really is_ , Allan thought smugly.

"Yes, I did. I lost my first and one true love. Thirteen years ago when I was a young man not much older than you."

"How horrible." Tintin's wide-eyed expression betrayed his eagerness to hear more.

"He died of the Spanish flu. The only person I ever loved. " Allan cast his gaze down, well aware it would make him look dejected when in reality it facilitated telling lies.

" _He?"_ Tintin's eyes were even wider.

"Yes, a young man he was. Barely twenty at his death in November 1918. He'd been strong and healthy when we met in the Navy, and I'm not sure if you remember, but that epidemic took the best from us. He caught a fever and suddenly he was dead… I know, I know, it's unnatural, a man with a man…! But I guess that someone as smart as you will be discreet about it, right?"

"Of course." Tintin was blushing, and Allan had to try his hardest not to grin. Surely telling this 'secret' would make Tintin feel special, and help to speed up their relationship which ultimately would lead him into Allan's bed.

"I know", Allan said with a smile and pretended sadness in his eyes. "You're a very bright young man, you know that true love knows no gender. It's such a pity that some relationships are called perverted when in fact the bond between two men can be deeper, more pure and harmonious than that between man and woman. Don't you agree?"

"Yes, sure." Tintin nodded, his cheeks still flushed. There was a moment of silence until he asked, "Do you miss him very much?"

"Indeed." Allan sighed. "Alas, yes, I do. But what to do? Life goes on. Actually, you know…" He leaned closer to Tintin, and whispered, "It seems I forget the past so much more easily when I'm with you. Who knows, maybe it's destiny."

"Huh?" Tintin's blush turned a deep scarlet, but he did not pull back from Allan's sudden nearness.

"Yes, maybe you're an angel sent by the Lord to help me forget. I can't help it, you've captivated me." He chuckled. "Oh dear, how that sounds! Don't mind me, will you?" He searched in his coat pockets, revealing a pack of cigarettes. "Want a snipe?"

Tintin politely refused, and Allan lit a cigarette, looking thoughtfully at Tintin as he inhaled the tobacco taste. The boy was not as shy as he seemed, his gaze firmly connected to Allan's without being intimidated. Finally Tintin smiled at him. Such a pretty, lovely face! He could hardly wait to see it overtaken by lust, moaning and flushed with desire, unable to get more of him, Allan. But that had to wait. One step at a time! He decided to switch topics.

"You remember that rhyme the kids sang back then?"

_I had a little bird_

_Its name was Enza_

_I opened the window_

_And in-flu-enza_

Tintin shook his head. "No one spoke English in the orphanage. But I remember the influenza scare. Several of the children fell ill and three of our caretakers died, but back then I was too young to understand what it truly meant. … It was weird, don't you think? Usually influenza kills only the very young and the old, infirm ones."

"Right." Allan exhaled a cloud of smoke. Pointing at his well-filled bookshelf he asked, "Have you read any of the books yet? Lots of traveler novels in there, good material for an adventurous youth like you."

"I haven't found the time yet but I will. Thank you."

Allan leaned toward the shelf, picking out the one book he wanted Tintin to read. It was titled _Teleny,_ an illegal copy he'd had much trouble obtaining on the black market, and handed it to him. "Here. This should keep you entertained for a few evenings. It is rumoured that Oscar Wilde wrote it, and I believe so, too. Beautiful prose and exquisite metaphers – it will be of interest to you as a reporter."

"Ah, thank you." Tintin glanced at the unpretentious, simple cover. His innocent smile showed that he had no idea what sort of book Allan had just given him. _Teleny_ was one of the raunchiest books Allan had ever read, containing the most shamelessly detailed descriptions of sexual acts, most of them between two men. It would give Tintin a good idea of the manifold pleasures that humans could give each other, and ideally make him more curious.

Progress was slow, frustratingly slow, but Allan knew it would pay off in the end.

.

.

.

Tintin had stowed the book safely under the bunk bed in his cabin. He would read it later. Right now he was too excited to think clearly – he was not yet sure if he liked his boss but Allan clearly liked him. And not in the same way his caretakers, or the Abbé Fournier, or some other kids had, but in a different way that scared him a little but also made his heart beat faster, and promising adventure and action. Actually – Allan _was_ adventure and action. Tintin had seen him level-headed and competent in handling matters aboard his ship but also enraged and aggressive over seemingly small issues. He had a way of scaring the sailors out of their wits, frequently resorting to verbal and physical violence, and they respected and feared him. Only with Tintin he was always civil, even affectionate and caring, and Tintin felt his suspicions confirmed that it was more than affection.

 _What if he's really in love with me?_ Could that be? It was so different, the way Allan treated him, always protective and gentle, sometimes to the point that Tintin felt treated like a child, but he brushed aside that small concern. On the whole, it felt good being with him. He listened to Tintin, shielded him from the rough manners of the other sailors, and never assigned him any dull or disgusting work. Perhaps it was Tintin's destiny to be abandoned, but if it was truly _love_ Allan felt for him – the passionate sort of love, not that of a parent or caretaker – then maybe things would be different for Tintin. Maybe with _that_ sort of love he could feel safe. True love was forever and endless. Everyone knew that.

 _Damn it, Tintin, relax._ He was thinking too much, hoping for too much! Whatever intentions Allan had, he would reveal them sooner or later. Tintin must not expect anything, or he would be disappointed. Now there was still work to do before he could go to bed: bringing the Captain his whisky.

He hated that task. The entire Captain's cabin reeked of whisky and tobacco, three times more so than Allan's, and he had never seen Captain Haddock in a sober state. How had he become Captain in the first place? A pathetic, miserable drunkard who accomplished nothing aboard his own ship. It was not surprising Allan had to do all the work. But Tintin constantly told himself he should not be so quick to judge – after all, he'd never actually talked to Haddock before. That constantly drunk, disorderly wreck had always been asleep when Tintin had visited his cabin and as quietly as possible had exchanged the empty bottles for full ones; the stale, fume-heavy air compelling him to get out of here quickly.

Tonight was different. He entered the cabin and froze in the doorway.

Captain Haddock sat on a chair at his desk, wearing black trousers and a white undershirt, and Tintin noticed with some interest that there was a lot of dark chest hair peeking out from beneath the white shirt, and the strong, similarly hairy bare arms, wondering if Allan was equally well built. _Surely he is, he's even taller than the Captain._ It was a tantalizing thought.

Haddock's gaze met Tintin's, and his eyes narrowed, staring at him with unconcealed hostility.

But Tintin would not be intimidated by an old boozer. He put the two whisky bottles onto the table. "Your drink, sir."

For a moment Haddock just stared at him angrily. Perhaps it was better to get out of here… what if that guy was loony? As though to confirm Tintin's fears, the Captain jumped up from his chair. "Ten thousand thunderin' typhoons", he bellowed, and Tintin made a step back. "That loathsome ectoplasmic earthworm should be keelhauled! Tryin' to keep me away from my duties by making me drink!"

"Wh- what?" Tintin stuttered, retreating another step but too taken by surprise to flee: Captain Haddock was completely sober.

"Blisterin' barnacles!" He grabbed one of the bottles and threw it in Tintin's direction. Missing Tintin's head by mere centimeters it shattered on the doorframe, spilling shards and amber-colored liquid all over the wall and floor. Several drops and splinters hit Tintin, and he hastily stepped aside.

"And now he's sendin' baby-faced assassins to bring me alcohol! What are ya gonna do next, pipsqueak tuft of a ginger? Gonna kill me in my sleep at the crook's orders?"

Maybe he was crazy after all. Tintin responded with a hard, unwavering gaze. "What in hell are you talking about… sir?"

Haddock was breathing heavily, face reddened with anger. Tintin observed him, wondering how old he was. That jet black beard could be hiding a rather young face, and his hair was full. On the other hand, there were deep lines around his eyes. But he was still handsome, and Tintin had to make a conscious effort not to ogle his strong build and muscular arms. Such masculine-looking men had always fueled his most secret fantasies but until now he had never actually been so close to one. Except perhaps for Allan who looked even bigger and stronger, but he'd never actually seen Allan's body before.

Dear God, he had to focus. Finally Haddock spoke again. "Who are you?"

"I'm the new cabin boy. My name's Tintin."

Haddock groaned, covering his face with one hand. "That's how far it has gone, eh? Hirin' people without tellin' me! I'll have him whipped!"

Tintin frowned.

"All right! Tintin, eh? Funny name. And a cabin boy, on top of that…! What does he think this is, the Middle Ages?"

"Well, if you need anything, sir, I'll get it for you." Tintin kept his expression neutral, his tone polite. "That's my job here."

"At least you got manners", Haddock said, then muttered something barely intellegible about 'brutes' and 'neanderthals'. He gave Tintin the other whisky bottle. "Throw it overboard."

"Sir?" Tintin thought he had misunderstood.

"Chuck it overboard!" Haddock commanded. "I don't need any more of that hooch to tempt and ruin me! … And clean up that mess!"

"Aye, sir."

.

.

.

Tintin's Diary

March 14, 1932

_At first it seemed that Haddock is not a hopeless case, but who knows? Perhaps his sober episodes are only temporary and soon it'll be like they have never occurred. Of course I threw the whisky overboard anyway, as he told me to._

_It is late and I should go to sleep but I cannot stop thinking about Allan. Until a few minutes ago he visited me here, just when I changed into my night-shirt, and asked me if I would join him for a formal dinner at the port town of Bagghar where we will anchor tomorrow. I was surprised he'd invite the entire crew, but he said no, it would be only me and him. Then he said I was an exceptional young man and that I had truly, indeed, enchanted him, and he knelt down and kissed my hand._

_Can you believe that? I honestly don't know what to think. On the one hand I feel so close to him – and I'm not sure why since I don't really know him – maybe that's the destiny he talked about? He also says we are 'soul mates', something I've never heard before, but it sounds exactly how I've always imagined love to be. Anyway, I can hardly believe how a plain guy like me can incite such emotions in a man, and it excites me to no end, keeping me awake and on the edge. I want to believe it, believe so badly that I have that kind of power over his heart. It is a little scary, the idea of being pursued like a young lady, and apparently that's what he wants, but it also gives me a huge thrill. Never before has anyone sought my company like this, wooed and complimented me like this. I know I shouldn't be impressed, he's a man after all and it's not right, but I can't help it. My heart is beating so fast and hard, I'm unable to fall asleep._

_I want this so badly. I want things to be different this time. To be really loved and to trust, not just for once but forever. But for precisely that reason a part of me does_ not _want to be with Allan, fearing abandonment more than anything else._

_And guess what he did then! He kissed me, right onto the mouth, and because I was so unprepared for anything like that I protested, shoving him from me (of course I regretted it instantly). He was so very apologetic. "I'm sorry, Tintin, so sorry, to act so impulsively. Can you see that's what you're doing to me? You're sweeping me off my feet with your lovely, irresistible charms. No man can resist that."_

" _Well", I replied, embarrassed. "Actually, you're the first one to… to kiss me."_

 _He laughed, saying all the others must have been blind, and that I am truly making him want me. I don't really understand what it means. I am not truly_ doing _anything, am I? I'm just there, and he desires me, but I haven't done anything to incite him or give him ideas, have I? I know I haven't, at least not consciously._

_I had no idea that being desired is such a powerful, riveting sensation, and usually I would be scared of an older man running after me – and I know I should be! – but the adventurer in me enjoys the ride. And to be honest I really want to be in Allan's arms. He may not be very handsome but he's so charming, tall, strong and comforting. I want to be held, and I feel so much closer and more intimate with him than I've ever been with anyone else, even the Abbé Fournier who was important to me but has never made my pulse race. This is truly different, isn't it? If it is not love, then what can it be?_


	4. Chapter 4

Allan was content, very content. After the romantic candlelight dinner at one of the finest restaurants in Bagghar – where people had ogled Tintin; pale, red-haired beauties being a rare sight in these parts – Tintin had willingly accompanied Allan to his cabin where Allan now played the most challenging and nerve-racking part of his act.

A pity that they served no alcohol in the North African restaurants. It would have helped him to loosen up, and might have made Tintin more cooperative as well.

Tintin sat on Allan's bed, clearly apprehensive as though he expected Allan to pounce on him any second. Despite his inexperience and naivete, the boy was no daft greenhorn. His entire body language betrayed tension and insecurity although he was trying his best to hide it.

That was not ideal. Allan needed Tintin to trust him. He could not allow anything to happen at this moment; nothing must frighten him now. Whatever Allan wanted from him, Tintin must feel as though every decision was his.

Allan paced around the small cabin, nervous and fidgeting. "Christ, how do I say this…" he muttered, secretly applauding himself for being such a talented actor. "You're so young, with such a bright future ahead you, while I don't have much to offer."

He was playing his own _advocatus diaboli._

Tintin was looking at him anxiously, his small, freckled hands fumbling awkwardly with the buttons of his coat. He had kept it on all the time despite the warm, sultry Moroccan night.

Allan knelt down in front of the bed, feeling Tintin's knees poke his chest, and put his hands around Tintin's waist. "I can no longer deny it", he said gravely, gazing deeply into the boy's eyes. "I love you. I love you and I want you so much. More than I've ever wanted anyone before."

Tintin did not speak. But his breath had gone a little faster, and he simply stared at Allan. "Well… I-", he began, his gaze wandering down. "I…"

He seemed uneasy, and it added to Allan's impatience. What if Tintin did not believe him? What if he'd seen through him? Allan inwardly cursed himself. He had been close, _so close_ , to finish seducing the lad; he had worked his charm and rhetoric to the best of his abilities. And he knew he was a good actor: it took a lot of charisma to make up for his unattractive features.

What if Tintin rejected him? The mere thought caused fury to rise up inside him, and he quickly stood up, turning his back to Tintin. "Sorry", he muttered. "Figured honesty would be the best remedy. I can't help it, lad. You do this to me. You stole my heart, and I don't know what's happening with me. No one's ever done that to me before."

"Well… I've never had an… um, how do you say? – _suitor_ either", Tintin replied with a chuckle.

It sounded like Tintin was treating the whole matter rather lightheartedly. Allan inhaled deeply. He could forgive that. But a rejection… no, that was an entirely different matter. He needed answers and he needed them _now_. He turned around, their gazes locking. "Well, then, do you want me? Tintin, I ask you. Will you be my sweetheart?" Again he knelt down in front of him. "What do you say? Will you be mine?"

The most adorable blush was gracing Tintin's cheeks. _Goddamn it, say yes!_ Allan was at least as anxious as his cabin boy, and his temper was not helping. He knew that if Tintin refused, he'd be furious, even rightfully so. After all his hard work, he _deserved_ the boy now, didn't he? If he was rejected he would become enraged and claim him right here and now. The crew was away, celebrating in the brothels around the harbour, and no one would hear Tintin's screams and cries when Allan would force himself upon him, and taking what he was entitled to. A delectable warmth spread through his abdomen as he imagined the scenario, and he had to remind himself firmly to wait it out.

"Well…" Tintin shifted around uncomfortably. "I like you a lot, Allan. It's just that…"

"What?"

"We're both men. People will talk."

"Oh, Jesus Christ", Allan groaned. "I thought we discussed this! Let people say whatever they want… my darling", he added hastily, giving him another pleading look. "See, I don't mind gossip. Whatever they say our love will be strong enough to outlast all of that. You are my soul mate after all."

"And you're at least 15 years older than me."

For a moment Allan was too taken aback to respond. _Who do you think you're talking to, impudent whippersnapper? Do you think I'm an old man who can't give it to you the way you need it, floozy? Well, I'll show you, I'll fuck you right here and now and pump you full of my seed better than any younger guy could, whether you want it or not!_

He took a deep breath, resting his hands on Tintin's knees and looked up at him. "This is no big difference. You are an adult, too, aren't you? And when we're both older it'll be even less of a gap. I love you, Tintin. I'll always stay by your side. I will never abandon you. You'll always be safe with me."

Clearly the young man was not sure. For someone raised in a Catholic orphanage he was already surprisingly open-minded, and Allan hoped, desperately _hoped_ , for a _yes_.He did not like having to use violence. Sure, it was satisfying to prove his power over those pretty boys, but not quite as nice as when they actually wanted him, too. He was placing all his bets on Tintin's curiosity and adventurous mind. He had already guessed that Tintin the orphan who'd been practically thrown away by parents he'd never known, was probably afraid of entering an intimate relationship for fear of being relinquished, so making him feel safe had been Allan's top priority right from the beginning.

.

.

.

Tintin's heart was beating wildly. This entire courtship scenario, as bizarre as it would have seemed to him at any other point in his life, was an exciting adventure in itself. But he was afraid and thrilled at the same time by what he knew was an inevitable, important part of any passionate love relationship. Even before reading _Teleny_ he'd already known from talk and written sources what sorts of carnal delights love and infatuation made people pursue; he even knew how men made love to each other. And it was a daunting prospect. Although superficially fascinated with the sturdy, extraordinarily manly physiques of some men he'd met Tintin had never considered how it would be to actually have a man as his lover.

But maybe the sexual part was not as scary as it seemed. With someone as gentlemanly and experienced as Allan it might even feel good.

"Well", Tintin said, "you should know I have no experience at all."

"That's fine by me", Allan said eagerly, squeezing his hand tighter.

"You would have to guide me. At least in the beginning."

"Is that a yes?" The tension in Allan's grip was almost painful; it was as though he intended to pull or push down Tintin onto the bed any moment; and a very quiet, very weak instinct deep down inside told Tintin to _flee, get the hell out of here_ , but he ignored it because he could not think of a reasonable basis for this thought. Instead he focused on the powerful elation, the thrill of the moment. "Yes", he said breathlessly, "Yes. I want to be yours."

 

 

Tintin's Diary – March 25, 1932

_Great snakes! It's truly an adventure I have gotten into, much more adventure than I had dared hope for. Somehow I'm still not sure I made the right decision. There's something about Allan that bothers me but I can't put a finger on it. I've repeatedly asked my common sense but can only see positive traits – he's caring for me, treating me with gentleness and generosity. He gives me more food and money than the work contract specifies, and he's aggressive but never with me so I'm probably indeed special to him. Perhaps it's just his face that's – unconsciously – bothering me. Yes, that must be it. What else is there? But I can live with that._

_So this evening I said the words. We're lovers now. It is official. Such a new, strange sensation, belonging to someone! I've never had a lover before, not even a girl, and certainly wouldn't have guessed it would be like this, but it feels good already. So riveting it makes my heart race. And I also feel safe with him, more protected and guarded than I've ever felt with anyone else before. Of course I wouldn't need a protector but who am I to deny how great it feels? It's partly like having a father, and I say 'partly' because Allan is more than that._

_When I said 'yes' he kissed me, throwing me down onto the bed with his entire weight, and there was so much fervor in his kiss, so much hunger, that I was instinctively alarmed and tried to make him stop. Finally when his mouth was gone from mine I begged, "Not so fast!"_

_It took him a moment to understand but he rolled down from me, embarrassedly apologizing. "It's because you're so beautiful", he said, "and I cannot help it. I want you so much. But don't worry, I've got myself still under control. We will take it slow."_

" _Yes", I said, slightly disturbed because he was doing it again: saying again it is_ me _who makes him act like this. Am I truly doing that? I try my best not to 'tease' him! Well, it seems I need to try harder! I don't want him to lose control. "Let's take it slow."_

" _I'll be damned if I ever hurt you, sweetheart." He carressed my face and neck. "You know that, right? And when we do it, I'll be careful. I promise."_

_I nodded, not sure what to say._

" _Just don't make me wait too long, eh, darling?" He winked. "Or I might just have to make love to you whether you want it or not."_

" _Huh?" I stared at him, not sure if I had heard correctly. "Um… what?"_

_He laughed, carressing my hair. "Just kidding, sweetheart. Just kidding." Then his expression changed into a more serious one. "All right, I promise to love and protect you forever. Promise me one thing, too. Don't go near the other men on this ship. They're mean crooks, and only if you stay away from them I can guarantee your safety. Otherwise they'll molest you or worse."_

_I am not entirely convinced. Only one sailor on the Karaboudjan has ever given me a lewd stare and made advances toward me, and that was Tom, Allan's closest buddy. What are the chances that the entire crew is such a depraved bunch? But then, maybe Allan is right. He knows them all much better than I do. "Okay", I said._

" _And don't spend too much time with the Captain either. He's a violent alcoholic, known for his outbursts. He could be dangerous."_

_I nodded, still not sure if he really meant it, but I wanted to believe him. Yes, I want to believe it._

_He wants only what is best for me._


	5. Chapter 5

Allan had recognized quickly that Tintin's inexperience in matters of love did not prevent him from being an otherwise smart and independent spirit. He was constantly around the crew who'd readily accepted him at their card game evenings and even inspired him to take up the habit of smoking. It wasn't so much their presence around Tintin that bothered Allan (for all he cared, anyone could have his turn when he was finished with Tintin) but the influence of their constant unconscious masculinity contest that was bound to roughen Tintin's sweet, lovely personality. They would turn him into one of them and it bothered Allan.

Tintin was in danger of no longer being the naive, innocent youth that Allan preferred. He would become a man.

Already now he was disregarding Allan's orders, and spending time around Captain Haddock as well. He had sneaked through the ship's storerooms which Allan hadn't even realized until Tintin had casually mentioned to him that there was quite a lot of tinned crabmeat stored on the ship and little other merchandise; and he'd asked Allan, innocently straightforward, if crabmeat was really such a lucrative good. At that point Allan had lost it. Enraged because that kid had managed to make him anxious he'd grabbed Tintin's collar and shouted, "I forbid you from going near the storerooms again! D'you hear me?"

Tintin was almost too surprised to respond, his beautiful green eyes staring at Allan in sudden fright. "But... I was just..."

"Don't you talk back to me! You've already disobeyed at least three times!" He shook Tintin a few times before letting go. "I'm still in command of this ship, no matter what's between us! All responsibility rests on ME! So don't you dare meddle with my business! Got that?!"

Tintin stared at him for several seconds. Of course. Allan had never yelled at him before. Then he said, his voice almost a whisper, "All right."

Allan let go, and with a quick hand motion signaled him to get back to work. As the boy walked away he looked at Tintin's back, thinking. Independent spirit, huh? He was probably a defiant spirit as well. A young man out of control, unable to accept authority, like so many of today's youth. Tintin's spying around had to end! Allan wiped his forehead. He would have to lock the storerooms, and hold him on a tighter leash. The idea that Tintin, a reporter-in-spe, might discover the hidden opium cargo was almost as anxiety-inducing as the fear that Haddock in one of his rare sober moments might team up with Tintin. Against him.

As Tintin's lover it was even more important that he be strict, otherwise the lad might eventually think that he could get away with anything.

Allan thought he'd had scared Tintin off for a while but when he went to his cabin that night, ready for bed, Tintin was already there.

To Allan's surprise the boy sat on his bed, reading a Shakespeare comedy, and was dressed only in an oversized old T-shirt and a pair of undershorts.

A grin spread across Allan's face. If this was really what it seemed like, then he was a very lucky man. He had waited a week now for Tintin to make the first step, thinking he would speed up things after week two, perhaps forcibly seduce the boy then. But here Tintin was, comfortable on Allan's bed, and now he looked up at his boss, a lovely smile on his lips. "Hello."

Allan hastily closed the door and took off his coat. "Hey, lad." He sat next to Tintin, and the bed made a dip under him, protesting with a creak. "I'm sorry I got mad at you earlier."

Of course he was not sorry. He was merely going to set a friendlier mood. He put a hand on Tintin's back and let it rest there, feeling the boy's warm skin through the thin fabric.

"Sure", Tintin replied. "No big matter. I came here because I thought, um..."

"Yes?"

"I'm ready." His smile was shy, without any trace of coquettishness.

Allan traced Tintin's back with his hand, all the way down to his small but exquisitely round bottom. "What for?" He wanted to hear it from him.

"You know. For what lovers do." Tintin lowered his voice, starting to appear a tad insecure. "Weren't we gonna make love? ... Or did you want to wait?"

"Of course! Yes! Um, no... I mean, we needn't wait-" Allan grabbed Tintin's shoulders, pulling him close and kissing him before any more confused gibberish could spill out of him. So excited was he to finally have him in his bed, so much sooner than he had expected. He hadn't had any sex in months, and not only did that beautiful young thing mess with his self-control, but being Tintin's first man would be a special treat. And Allan would savour every second of it.

All that was missing was a choir of angels, illuminating his triumph with heavenly music. He felt like a conqueror, a victor who had just taken a town. And now it was time to invade and pillage.

He reminded himself to take it slow, at least for now. When they separated from their kiss - in other words, when Allan finally let go off Tintin - they both just sat there for a moment, looking at one another. Then Allan got up, and started to undress, taking off his pullover and shirt. Unzipping his pants he enjoyed the curious expression with which Tintin was watching him. "You all right, darling?"

Tintin nodded. His blush was barely visible in the dim golden lamplight.

"I'll be careful", Allan assured him, and that was at least half the truth. He wanted to make this first time enjoyable for Tintin, at least partly so that he could be sure of a second, a third, and many more times with that gorgeous young man. Hopefully Tintin would start to enjoy it too, so Allan wouldn't have to threaten or force him. He was a connoisseur, appreciating the fine beauty of the boys in his bed, and he hated to mar or ruin their lovely bodies and faces. Only if there was no other way he turned to violence. Lord knew he already put up with a lot.

Allan felt Tintin's gaze on his naked body, and smiled to himself. Even when only half erect his formidable size was sure to intimidate the lad, and indeed! Tintin was staring, unable to take his eyes off it.

"You too", Allan commanded jovially, once more sitting down next to Tintin. "Take it all off. A beauty like you has nothing to hide." He chuckled, brushing his hand over Tintin's leg, and watched him undress.

Indeed! Nude like this he was as beautiful as Allan had envisioned. Creamy light skin with a scattering of freckles on his narrow but toned shoulders and forearms. He was rather thin but not too much so; the ribs didn't stand out conspicuously. There were fine red-golden hairs on his legs, and another narrow line of that same light hair beneath his bellybutton, leading down to his groin.

"Come here", Allan waved him closer. They sat next to each other on the bed, and Tintin moved his face toward Allan's, still seeming hesitant, distracted by Allan's growing arousal. Lord, hopefully the boy would not change his mind! Feeling a pang of desperateness Allan pulled him into a new kiss, one hand on the back of Tintin's head and one around his waist. Usually it was a magical moment, to feel a fresh pair of lips upon his own, but this time Allan was too eager to savour the spark. Plunging his tongue into Tintin's mouth, the hot wetness a perfect fuel for his increasing desire, he kissed him hungrily.

It did not take long until Tintin realized be could actually play with his tongue in the same way, pushing it against and circling it around Allan's, and it was a delectably wet sensation. Tintin tasted so pure, so young, and his face felt smooth, his lips luscious. He was _uncorrupted_ , and that excited Allan immensely - knowing he'd be the first one to possess him, the one to make him enjoy being taken.

Gently he pushed Tintin down onto the mattress, then realized the lad might feel intimidated by seeing Allan's rather large, strong figure tower over him, so he signaled him to roll around onto his stomach. Tintin complied without objection.

Allan reached down under the bed to retrieve a box wherein he kept various personal items, among them a bottle of oil. When he'd found it he spread some oil generously over his fingers.

He took a long, lingering look at Tintin's beautiful body as it lay there before his hungry gaze; virginal, ready and waiting. The lad was supporting himself on his elbows which made his spine curve even more beautifully, emphasizing the round shape of his behind. Allan could not resist giving it a squeeze, then patted it lightly. "Relax, sweetheart", he said. "I'll use only one finger now. Open your legs a bit."

Tintin obeyed, and Allan knelt between the boy's open thighs. How badly he just wanted to take him this instant! His own cock was growing painfully hard. He could simply ram it inside, drive himself to full satisfaction. But Tintin's first time demanded gentleness and caution. This time he could not afford to hurt the boy, or else Tintin would never willingly sleep with him again.

 _Damnit, wait,_ he told himself. _Have some self-control. It'll pay off._

Slowly and carefully he slid one finger inside Tintin, and felt the boy's body tense around him. Murmuring a few soothing words he caressed his bottom and back. "Does it hurt?"

Tintin shook his head. Allan couldn't see his face from here but simply assumed it wasn't contorted with pain so he pushed deeper. The oil eased his movements, and soon he was fingering Tintin easily in a gentle, slow, rhythm; his own body hovering over the boy's, supporting himself with one hand on the mattress.

It became increasingly difficult to wait. Using his thumbs to nudge Tintin's buttocks apart he managed to find a more comfortable position between the boy's legs. Tintin was looking over his shoulder, a fleeting expression of anxiety on his face, and for a moment it seemed like he wanted to speak, but then stayed quiet.

Allan put more oil onto his palms, coating himself liberally with it. „I'll be gentle, darling", he said, hoping the lad would be able to relax, then he drizzled some oil right onto Tintin's crack, watching him wince in surprise.

.

.

.

Tintin gasped when he felt something cold on the sensitive skin of his bottom.

„Relax, it's oil", Allan said, squeezing his behind with rough, weathered but careful hands; and digging a pair of fingers between the round cheeks. Tintin's breath went faster. The sensation was pleasantly cool; and Allan's coarse fingers touching him in his most intimate areas felt outrageously forbidden and naughty, and _dear God,_ he really seemed to like fondling him there. At first, when Allan had entered him with a finger, Tintin had been surprised how exquisite it felt, especially when a mysterious, hypersensitive spot inside him was stimulated, but he had been to distracted by wondering if Allan really wanted this. Was he not disgusted by this sort of thing? But then Tintin told himself to not worry about it. _It's his idea, not mine!_

Then the fingers were gone, and Tintin braced himself for what inevitably had to follow.

Something very warm and hard pressed its full solid length between his buttocks, tightly squeezing until it was wedged between them, and slid for- and backward with ease, thanks to the oil. It was hot and slippery, and Tintin heard an appreciative sound from his lover.

Allan's erection was so strong and thick that nervousness threatened to overshadow Tintin's budding desire. Could he take it all in? What if it hurt too much? Would Allan stop if Tintin told him? He knew he should voice his fears but he did not want to appear bashful; or worse, like a wimp. Only a coward would back out at such an important moment.

So he gripped the bedsheet and silently prayed.

„Stay calm, my love." Allan had apparently detected Tintin's uneasiness. „I'll be careful."

Tintin nodded. Things would be fine. He should be grateful to have such an attentive lover.

And it hurt.

Allan was opening him up, breaking in with great effort. Tintin heard him groan, and tried to focus on his own breathing to distract from the new, previously unknown pain. _Dear Lord_ , that man was huge!

„Relax", Allan muttered, squeezing one of Tintin's butt cheeks as he slowly plunged deeper between them.

„I do", Tintin panted. It was only half true. Allan was penetrating him so fully, stretching him out so broadly that his body could not help but tense in protest. He would need time to get used to this. He noticed he'd been clasping the sheet so firmly that his knuckles were white, and let go. _Breathe, Tintin, breathe._

„Does it hurt, darling?"

„A bit."

„Guessed so. You're almost too tight for me..." Allan behind him was panting as well, still pushing a little deeper until his balls and pelvis were pressed against Tintin's bottom. „But now... I'm all the way in."

Tintin's breath was shallow. He felt every centimeter fill him out, and in addition to the pain there was a slight burn. „Wait..." he panted.

„Huh?" Allan was retreating, only to thrust back inside. Tintin could not suppress a small, pained noise.

„More lube..."

„You're perfect, my love." He was thrusting slowly, breathing heavily. Despite his gentleness his movements felt rough and uncomfortable.

„Allan", Tintin begged, a bit louder this time, „I need more oil."

The other man let out an exasperated sigh. He pulled out abruptly, and Tintin risked another look over his shoulder. Allan was not looking at him but struggling with the oil bottle in his already slippery and shaky hands, his expression betraying barely restrained anger. Finally he had opened the bottle and poured more oil onto his palm, coating himself with the stuff, and spreading some more around and into Tintin's entrance with a sudden, coarse touch that made the boy cringe.

He focused his attention back to the bedsheet below him, still trying to breathe in a more relaxed manner.

Allan re-entered him with one impatient and rough thrust, slightly more easily this time but still hard enough to make Tintin emit a small noise of distress.

„Oh ye-ah", Allan murmured. Heat radiated from his body above Tintin's. Supporting himself on his hands, one on each side of Tintin's shoulders, he started pushing forth and back. The burn returned, and Tintin bit his lip to suppress a whimper.

This was it, the magical unions of two humans in love, described in such tantalizing terms of pleasure and ecstasy by all those authors? The act of making love humans enjoyed and craved so much that they fantasized about it regularly?

It felt primitive.

The slapping sounds of Allan's hips against Tintin's behind, his heavy panting interspersed with occasional grunts and obscene words, his rough thrusts each of which almost pushed Tintin a few centimeters across the bed every time, and the creaking noises of the bed itself.

And the dull pain remained. Neither Oscar Wilde nor Pietro Aretino nor any others of the classical authors whose erotic novels Tintin knew had written anything about the pain.

The stretch was simply too big. He decided that there was no way around it. „Allan, it hurts. Let's stop."

Allan continued. Murmuring something intelligible under heavy breaths he continued with steady force. The bed grunted. Moist skin hit moist skin. Ungentle fingers dug into Tintin's flesh.

Sure, he felt that mysterious spot deep inside him. It tingled pleasantly whenever Allan's thrusts hit it, adding to a delectable warmth pervading his abdomen and further below, all the way to his toes. But the ache, the burn was distracting him, and his apprehension grew. Had Allan perhaps not heard him, being too absorbed in his pleasure? Had Tintin been too quiet?

He said it again, louder this time. „Allan, stop. Please."

Allan replied with a firm pat on Tintin's hip. „Almost done... my love", he panted.

Tintin exhaled, pressing his lips tightly together. Of course. He had been too late in saying it. What man could possibly have enough willpower to simply interrupt the act when it felt best? Judging from his sounds Allan was enjoying it immensely, and Tintin prayed he would be finished soon.

Surely the next time would feel better.

He buried his face in the sheets, waiting, trying to divert his attention from the raw, brute strength of Allan's rough hands holding him while that big cock pounded relentlessly into him, straining his sore insides.

Would he really get used to this?

Another thrust, and this time Allan remained deeply inside, his tense body pressing so firmly against Tintin's behind as though he was trying to push him right through the bed. Tintin heard a gasp, followed by the novel sensation of Allan's cock pulsating a few times inside him; and he knew it was over.

The next few minutes no one moved. The older man lay atop him, panting heavily. He was still hard inside Tintin but gradually relaxed, and so did his body.

He was getting heavy, so Tinin slowly tried to wriggle out from underneath his lover. Allan got the hint and exhaustedly rolled off him, lying down next to him on the bed.

Tintin felt his lover's warm, sticky seed run out of him, copious amounts dripping onto the sheets. The smell of sex permeated the stale cabin air – a peculiar scent like a breeze on the beach, full of salt and protein, but with additional hints of sweat and musk.

He relaxed, even more so when he sensed Allan falling asleep, but stayed awake for a while, processing the event.

His first time. So that was how it was meant to be?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains violence.

Although his first time had been rather uncomfortable Tintin readily went along with Allan's subsequent lovemaking lessons, thinking that he would eventually develop a taste for it. In fact, Tintin found he got used to the sensation; and it already hurt less the second time, allowing him to focus on the physical pleasure.

There were many different things one could do in bed. He discovered that it was easier for him to control the speed and intensity somewhat if he sat on Allan's lap, a position the older man liked to call „The Cowboy". Allan also showed him how to use his tongue on Allan's erection, even told him to take it inside his mouth as deeply as he managed. He did the same to Tintin, sucking him off and teasing him to the point of the explosion of bliss. For the first time another person had given Tintin an orgasm.

Allan taught him different poses, such as having Tintin lie on his back and wrap his arms and legs around Allan; or making him lie on the side, one leg hoisted up in the air while he positioned himself behind Tintin, taking advantage of the easy access. He also loved to spread his semen over Tintin's body, preferably the stomach or bottom, always telling him how pretty and beautiful it looked on him.

It would have been a series of delightful, intense and pleasurable adventures if there hadn't been that tiny little thing that bothered Tintin.

He had found it difficult to name, and only after long consideration he figured out what was actually bothering him. It wasn't that Allan _forced_ him into those sexual acts – no, by God, his lover was as gentle as ever in bed! – it was only that Tintin had never had a chance to actually _consent_ so far.

Every time it had been Allan who'd seduced him, and he did so without asking, and Tintin always played along. Somehow the time and place of their amorous encounters always seemed chosen in such a way that Tintin knew there was absolutely no excuse he could bring up, nothing that would prevent them from having sex now. If he had any objections he didn't voice them for he knew they wouldn't be valid – he simply sensed this, without any questions or confrontation having occurred.

Whenever he saw Allan he was reminded not only of the loving, considerate side that man showed him, but also of the ill-tempered, irate behaviour he had witnessed Allan show around the crew several times. Allan had a short fuse whenever the smallest of matters did not work out his way, and a part of Tintin feared that side of him. Feared that– in theory – if he resisted Allan's sexual advances he would get mad at Tintin, and thus Tintin would want him less, and then Allan would get even angrier. And of the consequences Tintin dared not even think.

So he'd always played along with a smile on his face while Allan was friendly and loving to him. To make his lover stay that way was well worth it, wasn't it?

But he could not deny it any longer: the balance was off. Allan was always the one who _took_ , as if having Tintin in his bed was his natural, ever-unquestioned right. It was off-putting, and Tintin knew something had to be done.

He had to restore the balance.

Finally he caught a moment alone with his boss. Allan sat in his cabin, reading the log book. „C'mon here, darling." He patted his lap, waving Tintin closer to him. „Sit here."

Tintin sat down on Allan's lap, feeling his lover's strong hands around his waist. „I need to talk to you about something."

„Anything, my love."

Tintin fidgeted nervously. „It's, um... you know, when we have sex..."

„Yeah?"

„I want to be the one to initiate it next time."

„Huh?" Allan pulled a face as if Tintin had just spoken Tonkinese, and absently caressed the boy's thighs.

„You're always the one coming up to me and... well, then we do it. I mean, you always initiate."

„Yeah?" Allan repeated in a slightly lower tone that implied, _And what's wrong with that?_

Tintin felt his face redden with embarrassment. Crumbs! Allan wasn't making it any easier for him. „I want you to wait, Allan. Wait till I ask you for sex."

Allan exhaled. His grip around Tintin tightened. „What's the matter, lad? Do you not like it when I make love to you?"

„ _What?!_ Yes, I do!" Tintin hastily objected. „You got me wrong... what I mean is- Look, Allan, I want you too. But you've got to give me a chance to show you. I want to be the one to initiate it next time. Would you wait for me?"

The older man looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

„Wouldn't you like that for a change?" Tintin asked. „Me seducing _you_? All you have to do is wait."

For a moment he wasn't sure what effect his words would have – Allan could be unpredictable at times – but to his great relief he merely said, „Okay."

.

.

.

The longer he pondered what Tintin had said, the more Allan was convinced that the little minx had tricked him. Damn those seductive wily redheads! All he'd heard had been „me seducing you", but in effect, Tintin had made him promise to wait until he, the boy, asked for sex. A condition, Tintin's own condition, for making love, and Allan had agreed!

An rash, ill-considered, stupid promise. And it irked him more and more. What if Tintin would _never_ want him? Allan was not daft; he'd been able to tell that Tintin hadn't enjoyed every single second of their lovemaking, and that he had hurt the boy sometimes.

So what if Tintin made him wait weeks? Or _months?_

Allan sighed. Damn his own incompetent thinking that was impeded and slowed down by the beguiling prettiness of young men!

He stood in the narrow hallway that led to the storerooms. Still he hadn't managed to lock them. There were simply not enough locks aboard. He'd have to take care of that before that nosy young reporter sneaked around here again.

Allan clenched his fist. Two times he had now caught Tintin spying around despite his express prohibition, and neither time the lad had come up with a solid excuse. What was the matter with today's youth?

The thought made anger seethe inside him. As he walked along the corridor one of the doors caught his attention. It stood open, revealing the room through a narrow crack. What was this? No one was supposed to leave the doors open!

_No! He wouldn't dare!_

With an angry hiss, Allan pulled the door open. It squeaked in its rusty hinges, and when he stepped inside the storeroom, the thundering sound of his boot soles resounding dully on the grimy floor, he found himself face to face with his cabin boy.

Tintin stood there with his eyes wide open, lips parted in slight astonishment and horror; and his entire body was frozen, caught in the act. He held an iron bar in his hand, standing before one of the wooden crates that he had attempted to pry open.

For a few seconds no one spoke.

Then Allan rolled up his pullover sleeves as he walked toward Tintin with heavy steps. „ _You!_ " he shouted. „Again!"

The boy dropped the iron bar, quickly looking around himself; and apparently having decided there was no way of escape, he lifted both hands in front of him. „Allan, wait! Let me explain!"

But his defensive gesture had no effect. That goddamned rascal wouldn't get off so easily this time! „Didn't I tell you?" Allan growled, grabbing Tintin's collar. The boy's expression of fear added to a pleasant warmth deep in his core, a rather unexpected, delectable sensation. „You-are-forbidden-from-entering-these-rooms!"

With the other hand he slapped Tintin across the face – an ugly, harsh and abrupt sound, it was followed by Tintin uttering a dismayed „Ow!"

The lad stared at him, confused and horrified. Then he began to speak, his lips trembling. „Allan, please... I was looking for whisky. Captain Haddock ordered me to bring more." He quickly explained how Mr. O'Brien, the Irishman responsible for the food and liquor stores, had told him to go look for it here because he had no bottles ready at the moment. It actually seemed to be a valid excuse this time as Allan knew O'Brien would confirm the story...

… but he was furious.

Because Tintin always tricked him, again and again; because that impertinent ginger devil was _toying_ with him, his innocent looks a mere façade. And it hurt his pride, injuring him profoundly.

Another hard slap to Tintin's face, with more impact this time, made the boy yelp with horrified surprise.

„Allan-" he set on to speak, but Allan was faster. His punch hit Tintin's middle, causing the younger one to gasp in pain and stumble back a few steps until he hit the wall. He was grimacing, bent over and hugging his stomach, then he looked at Allan again. „Wait-!"

Sometimes Allan was content with just one hit, but at other times it was like liberating a beast from its cage; a monster that could not stop.

The beast was free. Adrenaline rushed through Allan's veins. He heard the violent slaps of hard hands on soft skin as though it was someone else doing the beating, somewhere else. Even Tintin's gasps and shouts sounded far away. He felt Tintin's hands and arms trying to shove him, to wriggle away, to hit back, to protect himself, but no one stood a chance against the beast.

„Stop it, Allan, please, for the love of God, please, STOP!"

Allan paused. His breath went heavy. Slowly, the angry-red, vision-distorting curtain of violence lifted from his eyes, disappearing and clearing his sight for reality. The rush was over.

Tintin stood with his back to the wall, shaking, holding a hand to his face that could not entirely cover his bleeding nose and lip. The other was held up in a defensive gesture. „Allan, stop it", Tintin panted. „Please."

How scared he looked, how deeply shocked and hurt! A part of Allan knew that his violent outbursts might eventually destroy the fragile bond of trust between them; but then, that's how it always had been. The beast frequently took over. It had done so with all of the boys Allan had had as lovers; and no matter how badly he'd treated them they rarely fought back, always returning to him, only to crave his gentle words and tender caresses more than ever.

Apparently Tintin was no different.

„I told you", Allan finally said as though it would justify his use of violence, „you're not allowed here."

Tintin stared at him, aghast. „How can you..." he whispered. „How can you hit me like this?" Blood dripped from between his fingers, landing on his pullover.

„It's because I love you. You know that. Now get out."

 

.

.

.

Tintin's Diary – April 2nd, 1932

 

_I know I am not allowed in the storerooms. It was a huge mistake to just go there, even with Mr. O'Brien's permission._

_I have always feared Allan's outbursts somewhat but never really expected that one day his rage could be directed at me, too._

_He hasn't hurt me badly. My stomach will most certainly get a purple spot; and my nose and lip still bleed a little, but although I'm still shocked my own lover would treat me like this. I have to be strong, and try to see him as my boss. That's what he was at that time – not my lover, but my boss, who pays me wages for my work. Just because we happen to be a couple does not mean I can be idle at work or ignore the rules._

_No, I will make sure to remember the rules in the future and he'll never again have a cause to be angry at me._

_I'm still shaken but I know I'll get over it. I have to. Things will be fine. Of course, I could fight back – I might even win because my opponents usually underestimate me – but great snakes, he is no villain! He is my lover! How could I possibly hurt him? Maybe I would do it if he were more violent. I'd fight back to save my life, of course. But he won't go that far. I'm certain of that._

_This was an one-time incident, surely. It won't happen again._

_That same day I went to Captain Haddock's cabin to tell him there was no whisky, at least not today. The poor Captain is struggling with withdrawal symptoms. He no longer has the willpower to tell me to chuck the bottles overboard – he demands them again now._

_When I saw him he was in the saddest state of sobriety I have ever seen anyone in. Slouched over the cluttered desk, clasping his head and whining about his migraines he did not look like the commander of the seas he is supposed to be. When he noticed my presence he looked up, gazing at me with tired, reddened eyes. „Where's the whisky?"_

„ _I'm sorry, but we ran out. For now."_

„ _By the thundering typhoons of blue blistering barnacles", he mumbled._

_For a moment there was silence. „Well, then. I'm sorry. I have to go." I turned around, ready to leave._

„ _Wait", Haddock shouted._

_Surprised, I looked back at him. He waved a hand, signaling me to come closer._

_When I stood directly in front of him he regarded me with a long, intense gaze; and his voice was low when he spoke at last. „Who did this to you, lad?"_

„ _What?"_

_Captain Haddock pointed at my face. „This!"_

„ _Oh, right!" I touched my mouth and nose, feeling the already dried blood there that was forming scabs._

„ _Who did this to you, lad?"_

_I sighed. „Look, I'm fine. It's no big deal."_

_The self-pity, the misery was gone from his expresion. Instead there was now disbelief and anger, and I found myself surprised at the sudden change in his demeanour. „That villainous ostrogoth of an ectoplasm", he uttered. „To lay a hand on a young cabin boy! That wretched, miserable, amoeba-brained son of a cucumber!"_

„ _Captain, it's not as bad as it looks-"_

„ _He hit you! He beat you up! Won't you at least tell me who did this to you? I'll have him whipped and keelhauled! Listen, lad, I may be a sorry old boozer who can't tell his own nose from his bottom but as long as I'm the commander of this ship no one hits defenseless young grasshoppers!"_

_I stayed silent. My relationship with Allan was no one's business. The other men didn't know about it yet, and it should stay that way, lest they judge me. Even if I told Captain Haddock this secret, what good could come of a confrontation between him and Allan anyway?_

„ _Okay, you don't wanna speak up. Fine", he said at last. „But let me at least help with this, won't ya? Wait a moment." With a deftness and agility I hadn't expected from a drunkard suffering from sobriety symptoms he rummaged through his belongings to retrieve a medicine box from which he took a small tube. „Chinese herb salve. It makes cuts and wounds heal faster."_

_Well, then. If only to do him the favor I stayed there, on the chair in his cabin, while he sat on another chair opposite me, applying the odd-smelling ointment to the still sensitive scabs on my nose and lips._

_His face was close to mine, so close for a moment that I could clearly see his eye color: an intense, captivating blue. He had long black lashes, full and shiny like the hair on his head. Embarassed because I had been staring I quickly glanced away. But that only made me feel his fingers on my skin more acutely._

_They were calloused, his fingertips, and larger than mine, and I marveled at the contrast between their appearance and their wonderfully tender touch, so unexpectedly gentle and careful._

_When he touched my mouth I felt my breath quicken ever so slightly and prayed he wouldn't notice it. It was always the men. The handsome, grown, burly, manly men I cannot not stop being fascinated with, who always make my heart race._

_Minutes later Haddock was finished. I thanked him awkwardly, and he reminded me to leave the salve on, and told me to never let anyone hit me again. „And take good care of yourself, d'you hear, lad?"_

„ _Yes", I said. „Yes, of course."_


	7. Chapter 7

In wonderful moments like this, Tintin sometimes wondered if this man was truly the same Allan who had hit him earlier this week.  
Right now everything was perfect. They were on Allan's bed, fully clothed, leaning against each other in a close embrace - Tintin on Allan's lap, held comfortably by strong arms.

It was a sublime hour and he wanted it to never end. If only he could stop time and stay like this forever! He hadn't been in the mood to initiate any lovemaking yet, and hoped that Allan wouldn't be impatient. It had been two weeks now since their agreement, and Allan had let his hungry gaze wander over Tintin several times, even reaching out to touch or grope him, but Tintin had either never reacted or found a work-related excuse to get away. The next time would be on his own terms!

He simply had the need for this type of power right now. Balance had to be restored.

It would work out all right, he was sure of that. Allan loved him, didn't he? If he loved Tintin he would grant him at least that one thing. Yes, Tintin was sure that this was love. What else could be the meaning of such timeless intimate moments, the sweet nothings whispered into his ears, the chaste kisses all over Tintin's face and hands, the adoring gaze from gentle eyes? Never before had Tintin received so much love.

It was a perfect moment.

He wanted to stop time.

.

.

.

Allan's patience was wearing thin.

The boy had made him wait almost two weeks now. That cocktease was playing games, surely! Allan regretted having agreed to his terms; regretted it deeply. After all he'd done for Tintin it wasn't too much to ask to have a taste of the boy from time to time, was it? Tintin was his lover, and not supposed to disrespect and refuse him.

And if there was one thing Allan could not handle it was a lack of respect. Tintin had previously angered him by ignoring the rules, and now he was doing so in subtler ways.

But what drove Allan to visit Tintin's cabin that night wasn't rage. It was simply desire, albeit mixed with a sense of entitlement. All right, Tintin wouldn't want sex but surely he could not refuse some other things that Allan hoped to do to ease his maddening restlessness and want. One could get satisfaction without intercourse.

The mere thought of Tintin's naked body trapped under his own caused an irritating tightness inside Allan's trousers.  
All he needed was an opportunity to taste the lad's sweet mouth, to pull up his shirt and admire his slim torso with rosy nipples. A chance to fondle and squeeze that exquisite behind, before grinding his own hardness against it until the point of release when he would spill his seed over the boy's backside.

That wasn't actually sex. It didn't fall under the terms of their agreement.

With a quiet creak, Allan opened the door to Tintin's cabin, holding a lantern. It was dark, around midnight, and their air inside the small room was warm and stale. So warm, indeed – of course, they were still near North Africa! - that Allan was not surprised to find Tintin asleep naked. The flickering orange lantern light illuminated his body in a most tantalizing way.

Tintin lay on his belly, arms spread out, face turned sideways. So peaceful and serene did he look in his sleep that Allan was distracted for a moment, just by gazing at his expression. But when he again noticed the inviting curves of Tintin's back and ass he remembered why he had come here.

Carefully he put the lantern onto the small table near the bed, and began to undress. He did not wear much in this sultry weather so it was a job done quickly.

He saw Tintin stir. The boy rubbed his eyes, lazily lifting up his head. Half asleep and languid he probably had no idea just how beautiful he looked right now. „Allan?"

„Yes, sweetheart, it's me." Allan had finished undressing, and gently nudged Tintin further back across the bed, toward the wall. „Make some space."

„What?" Tintin had the presence of mind to reply, followed by a barely intellegible „Okay".

The bed was actually too small for two, but with a close embrace a minimum of comfort could be managed. Allan slowly rolled Tintin onto his back so he could see his face, and bent down to kiss him. Their mouth met in an awkward, one-sided kiss as Allan invaded Tintin with his tongue, the half-awake youth only now realizing what was going on. But he did yield to the kiss, readily offering his lips, although he was rather passive.

Only when Allan climbed atop him, almost burying Tintin underneath his solid, bulky frame and his erection wedged between both their bellies, the boy started to resist.

„Allan?" he asked when the man's mouth grazed his neck, nibbling and biting him softly. Tintin's hands were cautiously pushing against Allan's shoulders. „We had an agreement, remember?"

„Of course, my ginger kitten", Allan said, caressing his cheek. He saw the doubt and fear in Tintin's eyes, and went on to explain, „But this isn't sex. Only touching. Don't worry, I'll keep my word."

The lad's doubtful gaze remained. „Okay", he said at last. „It's just... well, I think I should be the one to start this."

Allan did not like that tone. He had hoped that Tintin would simply play along, no matter what they had mutually agreed to or not; and that he'd be willing when Allan touched him, but he was not. He was fearful, doubting, distrusting him.

Rejecting him.

He gently took Tintin's jaw in one hand, forcing him to look at him. His voice was low; a serious, almost threatening tone when he said, „A man has needs. You know that, Tintin."

The boy looked at him silently, eyebrows furrowed, lips pressed tightly together. Then he nodded.

Allan smiled. „Good boy. You understand, right?"

The reply was barely audible. „Yes."

Allan let his face relax, and smiled. „I won't hurt you, precious."

Oh Lord, he was in dire need of release. No time to savour the taste of the moment. He let his hands roam over Tintin's torso, feeling the hot, smooth skin, and rubbing the boy's nipples until he felt them harden. With a still unfocused hunger he continued licking and softly biting Tintin's neck and shoulder. He tasted slightly salty and sweaty, but above all, deliciously pure and uncorrupted despite all that Allan had already done to him.

Would he ever be able to get enough of this sweet young thing? Frantically, he moved his erection against Tintin's stomach, grinding his aching, leaking hardness against soft, silky skin.

He noticed that Tintin's hands were still weakly pushing against his shoulders, so he grabbed these narrow wrists, one large rough hand around each, pressing them down onto the mattress.

Tintin was not looking at him anymore. He'd closed his eyes and turned his head sideways, and it was impossible to tell whether he enjoyed this or not, being held down and used in this way with Allan's rutting movements.

But this did not concern Allan right now. Panting, grinding his cock against the boy, his only thought and goal was release. The tension in his body demanded relief, and despite the stifling, exhausting night heat he felt himself driven to further exertion, moving faster and harder.

„Damn", he groaned when his climax, just within reach, was about to ebb away. He would have his much-needed satisfaction and he'd have it tonight! Tintin's passiveness was not helping. He let go off the boy's wrists, and ordered him to turn around. „Get on all fours!"

„But..." Tintin objected.

„Do it!" Allan snapped, giving one of Tintin's hips an unreasonably rude slap.

Tintin obeyed, and was now on his hands and knees, presenting Allan his backside. His arms and thighs shivered lightly, and he cringed when Allan squeezed his buttocks.

„Allan?" His voice was full of anxiety. „I thought you- I thought we wouldn't..."

Allan breathed heavily. The sight of that fine ass, those exquisite, smooth buttocks enticingly open just for him, revealing the small, pink entrance he'd conquered a few times already, still did not fail to excite him.

A new rush of blood flowing downward to his still engorged hardness caused it to stand up more solidly, and blurred his reason and mind.

And Allan realized there was just one way, only _that_ one way he would find satisfaction tonight.

He entered him.

.

.

.

Tintin winced, making a surprised noise when he felt the breach. The lack of lube was causing an uncomfortable burn.

Allan thrust inside him with a drawn-out, content grunt. He held onto Tintin's hips firmly, not allowing him to move an inch.

„Allan", Tintin gasped, overcome with confusion and shock.

And he realized.

His lover was an egoist who would always take, would always feel entitled to him, at any time and place he pleased.

What Tintin wanted – it did not matter.

The upset almost made his stomach turn. „Allan", he protested, „what are you doing! Stop it!"

No reply save for a short groan. Allan pounded into him, sliding in and out with relative ease despite the insufficient lubrication; but the dull pain and soreness were nothing compared to how much this new realization disturbed him.

„Oh... yeah." Allan's moan sounded enraptured, and for a while his movements slowed down. His fingers dug into Tintin's flesh hard enough to bruise.

„Stop it", Tintin shouted. „Allan, stop! You're hurting me! I don't want it, not now!"

The answer was a hand covering his mouth, large and rough, and tasting of machine oil. Allan uttered just three words between heaving breaths. „Shut up, bitch."

Oh God. This was not happening. Tintin stayed still, his fingers clutching the bedsheet. He did not know what to think. Sure, he should fight back – it was the logical thing to do – but right now his reason seemed to have stopped working. The first few tears rolled down his cheeks, landing on Allan's sweaty hand over his mouth. He simply did not understand. This wasn't the same Allan he knew and loved. What was going on?

Finally the hand was gone, and Tintin inhaled deeply, then his breath involuntarily picked up the rhythm of Allan's thrusts.

His arms felt weak from the effort of supporting himself on the bed so he sank down onto his elbows, hiding his face in the duvet and waiting for the everything to be over.

And when Allan came, nausea rose in Tintin's stomach. He felt the twitching of that cock inside him, the warmth of several jets of seed, and he could not help but feel sullied.

Afterward, Allan smoked a cigarette. He rested on the bed, half sitting and leaning against the wall, and Tintin was curled up next to him, turning his back to his lover.

He was trembling, and the shocked void in his mind slowly gave way to anger. How could Allan simply not listen to him? How could he use Tintin like that? Did his own promise mean nothing to him?

Allan patted Tintin's thigh, much as one would pet an animal, and murmured something expressing his amazement at how such a fine, exquisite body like Tintin's always made him weak.

At this point Tintin turned around to glare at Allan, his lips quivering with rage. „I didn't want this!"

„Oh, sweetheart." Allan grinned, caressing Tintin's skin. „You're taking this far too seriously."

Tintin stared at him, fists clenched. He was breathing heavily, and could feel tears well up in his eyes once more, but he wouldn't shout or cry. Not now! „You promised", he spat out. „You lied to me!"

„My, my." Allan's hand rested on Tintin's hip, warm and solid. „What's the matter, lad? We've done this before. You liked it, didn't you? This is how I show you that I love you. I love you so much I can't get enough of you."

„But..." Tintin was too flabbergasted to respond. His lover's words were soothing and infuriating at the same time; and the mess of his own feelings, which he could hardly identify, was confusing him profoundly. „But, I-"

Allan gazed deeply into Tintin's eyes. His hand caressed Tintin's cheek, a stark and irritating contrast to his previous rough, almost brutal treatment, and with the gentlest voice Tintin had ever heard he said, „I simply can't resist you, kitten. You're much too beautiful for this world."

First Tintin was too taken by surprise to respond, then he pointed at Allan with one trembling finger. „This!"

„...What?!" The older man seemed genuinely surprised.

„You're doing it again! You're saying it's my fault... that's what you always do, blaming _me_!"

„ _What?!_ " Allan repeated, a look of incredulous amazement on his face that quickly turned to anger. „What the fuck, boy!?"

„You can't control yourself!" Tintin struggled against his increasing voice, but in vain. He had to shout to suppress the sobs. „You take no responsibility! _You swine!_ "

„Look who's getting hysterical here!" Allan raised his own voice. „Tone it down, will you, kid?"

Tintin could not hold back any longer. The tears streamed down his face, and he covered his mouth in one last attempt to stop the nearing avalanche of sobs. What on earth was wrong with this guy? Or should he rather ask what was wrong with _himself?_

All of a sudden he doubted his own sanity.

Never before had he felt so utterly lost. So he did not object when two well-known, muscular, hairy arms enclosed him in a warm, comforting embrace; and when his face was pressed to that familiar strong chest that smelled faintly of tobacco. Why did this feel so right, so wonderfully tender and pleasant? Allan's protective closeness, his gentle voice whispering sweet nothings while he rubbed Tintin's back; it all calmed him down in a matter of minutes. He wanted this, needed it.

Everyone knew that sometimes love hurt. And it was hurting Tintin badly. What was he supposed to do?

A small part of him was actually thinking the unthinkable: what if he were to break up with Allan? What if he simply ended the relationship, walked away? He could even leave this ship at the next harbour.

But the idea felt unrealistic and strange, even though he rationally knew that Allan was unpredictable, selfish and brutal. Allan was his lover! Surely he could make that behaviour stop. Love conquered all – everyone knew that, too.

Right now, the only thing that mattered was this calming embrace, a timeless, loving, sublime, continual solace.


	8. Chapter 8

Lunchtime a few days later would have been the same everyday routine if there hadn't been that new rumour.  
Allan, his assistant Tom, and Captain Haddock usually weren't present when the crew ate lunch, so everyone listened when one of the sailors narrated his recent encounter with the cook. "A friend just told me. He said the cook came running to him yesterday morning, upset and confused, because he had found opium in one of the crabmeat tins."

"Opium!" There was a collective gasp.

"No way!"

"Haddock may be a hopeless drunk but he's no smuggler!"

He whispered as though revealing a conspiracy. "Yes, boys, there's opium aboard, and we all know there's only one person aboard who'd take such risks."

There was low murmuring, a chaos of voices, but no one asked nor spoke a name. Tintin was shocked. It would explain a few things - especially why Allan was so adamant about him not entering the storerooms. But Captain Haddock? Tintin wouldn't have taken him to be the type who'd be involved in crime - but then, Tintin had also failed to recognize Allan's darker sides, hadn't he?

Whom could he possibly trust?

.  
.

.

Perhaps he should break up with Allan.  
Until now he had pushed aside that thought because the sacrifice seemed too great. To give up the love, the caring, the protection...

But Tintin had realized one important thing: Love could not protect him from his lover.

It could not keep him safe nor out of harm's way.

He was scrubbing the deck. It was dawn, and he had barely seen Allan today which had given him plenty of room to think about his situation. He sat there, brush in hand, pondering the circumstances. Even though Allan was his lover, it still had been rape, hadn't it? The hurt and shame sat deep, adding insult to the injury. How did he _dare?_ He had simply taken Tintin, with no regard nor respect even for his own promise!

Of course, even when they broke up Allan could still abuse him. But what if he'd actually gain insight? What if he realized his mistake and apologized to Tintin, being truly sorry about how he had mistreated and disrespected him?  
One had to believe in the good.

Tintin sighed. Sometimes he was not sure if Allan had ever loved him.

Suddenly he heard the heavy, thundering footsteps on the deck and realized he'd been sitting there idly, lost in his reveries, for at least fifteen minutes. Quickly, he began to scrub.

Allan stepped in front of Tintin and slapped him straight across the face. "I'm not paying you to sit around", he barked. "Do your work or you'll regret being a lazy good-for-nothing!"

Tintin held a hand to his injured cheek, staring his lover into the eyes. "What-"

"Get up", Allan ordered, at the same time grabbing Tintin's collar, and he felt himself being violently dragged to his feet. "Don't you dare talk back to me! _Got it!?"_

"I don't understand..." Tintin tried to stay calm. "What have I done-?"

"Got it?!" Allan raised one hand, and Tintin instinctively lifted his own palms in defense, but a voice interrupted them.

"What in the name of bilious blistering blue barnacles is going on here?"

Captain Haddock had appeared on the deck, and was approaching them both. In one hand he held a whisky bottle.

Allan released Tintin so quickly that the latter stumbled backward. "Captain!" He seemed surprised. "I hadn't expected to see you-"

"Of course not!" Haddock's words sounded slurred. "You'd never guess I'd get out of that cabin all by myself, is what you think, eh? What'cha doing here, beating up cabin boys?"

Allan seemed much calmer all of a sudden. "Captain, I was merely reminding the lad that he's been contracted to work, not to sit around like a turtle in the sun."

For a moment Haddock looked back and forth between Allan and Tintin before he raised the bottle, pointing it at Allan. "As long as I'm commander of this ship no one hits this boy."

Allan put a hand on Haddock's shoulder. "My friend, you've had a few drinks too much, it seems. Why don't you have your well-deserved rest and let me handle this?"

Haddock raised a finger until it barely touched Allan's nose, and with some effort he said, "And you stop patronizing me. This has been going on for too long."

"Captain..."

"Damn right! As Captain I order you to leave the deck now! Go to your cabin!"

He was swaying just the slightest bit and for a second Tintin was afraid Allan might simply shove his semi-drunk boss out of the way, but despite the whisky on his breath Haddock was radiating a surprising amount of authority.  
Tintin noticed the faint traces of contempt on Allan's face; the barely detectable sneer and brief narrowing of the eyes, but Allan complied, and saluted before he left.

Now Tintin and Haddock were alone on the ship deck, and Tintin readjusted his dishevelled shirt collar. He remembered the rumour. Uneasiness befell him at the thought that Haddock, someone who seemed such a good man, might be pulling the strings of opium trade, but he couldn't, simply didn't want to see him in that light. Surely this was a decent man who had no idea what his First Officer was using the _Karaboudjan_ for!

He decided to confront him about the rumour.

.

.

.

They sat in the Captain's cabin, barely comfortable in small chairs at the cluttered desk. And Haddock had actually listened, sighing and shaking his head dejectedly when Tintin told him what he had heard. "Yes, I've heard it too, actually. Someone left me an anonymous note this morning."

„Who's the kind of person here who'd smuggle opium?" Tintin asked cautiously. "Let's find out, Captain. We must know if it's true."

"Opium", he muttered, voice full of resignation.

"Captain?"

"Yes, yes, lad! I'll have the storerooms searched!" He waved a hand, then sighed again.

Tintin looked at him thoughtfully. It hadn't escaped his keen observation skills that Haddock's reaction hadn't been defensive or hostile like that of many trapped liars; neither could he see the fleeting expressions of anger and fear in his face, involuntary telltale signs of a criminal being caught. Haddock simply looked disappointed and sad.

Then, he hit the wooden table surface with his hand, growling at the wall. "That despicable son of a cucumber", he shouted. "I knew he's plotting something behind my back, that contemptible earthworm!"

"Pardon, Captain? Whom do you mean?"

Haddock's fierce gaze met Tintin's. "He's the one who has beaten you earlier, isn't he? Allan, that bootlegging zoological waste product-!"

Tintin knew he couldn't hide the truth. "Yes... he actually beat me for spying around in the storerooms. Makes sense now, doesn't it?"

For a brief moment there was silence.  
"I see", Haddock finally said and briefly Tintin was afraid he had made a huge mistake. But Haddock appeared genuinely distraught. He looked down on the desk. "All right, lad, I'm gonna ask you only this time, and I hope you'll be honest with me."

"Of course." Tintin wondered what was to come.

"Did be abuse you? ... Because if he did I'd fire him faster than a thundering typhoon", he added quickly.

_Oh God, no._ The very question Tintin had feared. It would be a terrible, terrible sign of weakness to admit he'd been humiliated in that way. No one was to know about that! Wasn't his own shame already enough? He sat up more upright. "Why would you think that?" he asked indignantly. "Of course not."

Haddock tilted his head to the side. "You know what I'm talking about, don't you, lad? For example, does he touch you? Or makes you touch him? Does he come to your bed at night?"

Tintin's ego responded with anger. _What does that drunkard know, he is not even fully sober this instant!_ He stood up, straightening his pullover, keeping his head high. "I love Allan, and he loves me."

Captain Haddock stared at hin, dumbstruck.

Sure, Tintin would break up the relationship, but right now he had to assert himself, to defend his actions and choices. His ego demanded no less.

"Yes, that's right, Captain. Now if you would excuse me, I've still got work to do."

"The hell you will", Haddock shouted, again slurring. "Sorry, lad." He lowered his voice. "Sit down. I haven't told you all yet."

Unwilling but aware he had to follow orders Tintin sat down.

"Lad, I'm sorry, really, but you need to know. See, we go back a long way, Allan and I." He sighed, leaning closer to Tintin. "And if there's one thing I know for sure about Allan Thompson it's this: That guy has never, ever loved anyone in his entire life."

Tintin crossed his arms across his chest, leaning back in the chair.

"Allan is a mean character. The only reason I made him First Officer is because he knows how to keep order and discipline aboard, and the crew respects him. But he's not nice. He's a talented actor, making people think they're his best friends, but he only uses them for his own advantage. And he's always had a taste for young men."

_So what?_ Tintin thought stubbornly. _Of course he prefers boys. That's why he's my lover. Duh._ But at the same time he could not resist listening.

„See, you're not the first young man he's charmed with his sweet promises of eternal, immortal love. He selectively seeks out those who appear vulnerable and love-starved-"

Tintin stood up, and slammed a hand onto the table. „That's enough!"

„Sit down and listen!"

Tintin stayed quiet, but he was trembling. He wanted to fight those words, wanted to defend his ears from them, but a greater part of him knew they were true, and it upset him.

„That's what he does, Tintin. I know you don't want to hear it, but you need to. He picks the ones he thinks will be easy to seduce, and courts them. Quite aggressively sometimes. I've even heard rumours of coercion."

Pressing thumb and finger to the bridge of his nose, Tintin sat down. His resistance weakened, and the voice of his ego was fading. Haddock's words echoed in his head, striking and painful.

„You understand, lad?" Haddock was looking at him intensely. „Let me tell you a story. It was six years ago, and we had hired this sailor, barely eighteen. Pretty face, just like you - pardon me. There were rumours of him and Allan being a couple. Once, and only once, that boy showed up at my cabin and complained about Allan beating him for no reason. I confronted Allan and told him that disciplining sailors is _my_ responsibility, but the kid always got new bruises - and excuses. Said he fell down the stairs or got into a brawl, that sort of balderdash. And one day – I'm not sure when – he just fell overboard."

Tintin was intrigued, shocked. The Captain had his full attention now.

„Fell over the rail, just like that. When we found his body it was too late. We also found a cryptic note in his bed, stating that he couldn't bear it any longer. Allan maintained that it was an accident but everyone knew it was suicide."

„Oh God." Tintin covered his mouth with one hand, staring at him wide-eyed.

„Only days later another youth, the radio operator's assistant, went to tell me that Allan had come to his bed, and raped him. The poor lad, I still see him before my eyes, all tears and anger. That's the moment when I vowed to myself I'd stop Allan. I would find evidence and get him arrested." Haddock sighed. „And then I fell in love."

„Huh?" Tintin raised an eyebrow.

„With alcohol." He grabbed the bottle, waving it around demonstratively. „And Allan was only too happy to assist me with it."

„Go on", Tintin said weakly. He was deeply disturbed, his ego crumbling under the weight of dismay.

„And the more pretty young men Allan brought onto this ship the more I drank to drown the fact that I was a miserable, incompetent coward. Nothing I did could change Allan's behaviour. I argued and threatened, but found no evidence of any crime so I couldn't discharge him. And as time passed, the crew just stopped whispering about what Allan liked to do with boys. It was like they'd gotten used to it, or too scared to interfere."

„Oh dear Lord."

„So I gave up. Whisky consoled me. I was a powerless, undeserving wretch unable to stick to his own resolutions, much less to maintain command aboard his own ship."

„Stop it." Tintin waved a hand around feebly. „I got it. I understand."

„You really get what I'm saying, lad? Allan is not your lover! He's a crook, a predator who'll use you-"

Tears welled up in Tintin's eyes, and he tried to wipe them away casually, but something inside him had been triggered. What Haddock had said about Allan not loving him – he'd already guessed so and it made sense; but to hear it from another person was still too much. He covered his face with both hands and started to cry.

It all broke out of him in the form of uncontrolled sobs and tears; the hurt and anger from what Allan had done to him. Emotions he had meant to file away, to deal with later, were returning with a vengeance.

He sensed the Captain's hands on his shivering shoulders, warm and soothing. He heard murmured words, felt warm breath smelling of whisky. Without thinking he pressed his face to the scratchy blue wool pullover, and the Captain embraced him, a little awkwardly at first, then tighter. „Shhht, it's all right, lad", he muttered. „Hush. You'll be okay. Truth hurts."

After a moment Tintin had calmed down, and his mind had cleared a little.

„Y'know, lad..." Haddock was still holding him close, and Tintin could feel the deep voice rumbling in the man's chest, „the moment I saw you on this ship I knew I finally had to do something."

„You threw a bottle at me", Tintin muttered.

„Because you reminded me of my failure. Sorry about that, I didn't mean to injure you. My Scottish ancestors' temper..."

Tintin freed himself of the embrace. Comforting as it was he shouldn't stay here longer than necessary – it would make him look like a weakling. He sniffed one last time, wiping his nose. „Actually I've already considered breaking up with Allan."

Haddock nodded. „Good!"

„I'll leave the ship first opportunity. He will never see me again. Where are we scheduled to land next?"

.

Tintin's Diary – April 18th, 1932

_I'm certain that Captain Haddock told me the truth about Allan, and it hurts. It's so hard to accept that my lover would be that sort of person, but it makes perfect sense. And perversely it makes me angry not at him but at myself; angry and ashamed because I've been stupid enough to fall for him._

_Tonight I knew my decision was final._

_I met Allan in his cabin, alone, and told him it was over._

_At first he thought I was joking. Then he still didn't believe me. But I repeated the same thing, that I was leaving him._

_„You can't do that!" he said, shocked. „Tintin, I love you!"_

_„Too late", I replied. „It's over."_

_He stood in front of me, menacingly close, tiny muscles twitching in his mouth corners and forehead. „You don't know what you're saying, darling." His enraged expression stood in stark contrast to the sweet name he called me._

_I struggled to stay calm, to keep my confident posture. „Yes, I do."_   
_That should do it. I turned around, leaving._

_With one quick movement he grabbed my arm. I froze, turning around to stare at him. Fury gleamed in his eyes, and holding me so firmly it hurt he hissed, „You'll regret this, Tintin." The last word he spat out like a curse._

_He let me go in the same moment I tried to pull my arm free from his grip._   
_I ran out of his cabin, close to panic, along the hallway and far, far back to the toilets. There I leaned onto a wall, panting with exhaustion. My heart was beating like wild. How had he managed to control me, to entrap me in such a way that I was shaking with fear now, like a hunted animal? It made me even more angry at myself. Was one single threat from Allan truly all it took to scare me so?_

_I hate to admit it, but scared I am._

_But when it is scared an animal will fight to death._


	9. Chapter 9

Tintin went to bed with a sense of relief but also sadness. A part of him deeply regretted that he'd never again find comfort and warmth in Allan's strong arms, but he knew he had done the right thing. He should take pride in the fact that he'd asserted his independence and need for respect. No one was supposed to treat him the way Allan had. Lover or not, it had been rape. There was no other name to call it. Tintin's rational mind repeated those facts to him over and over again.

Yet he couldn't sleep. It simply hurt too much. Not only the betrayal and violence but also to know that he was now truly alone in the world.

All alone save for his little white dog. Tintin lay in his bed, waiting for sleep and hugging Milou despite the warmth of the night.  
 _Alone. All alone._ Tears came back, moistening the dog's white fur.

A sharp knock on his cabin door startled him. He held his breath.

Then he grabbed the bedsheet so quickly that Milou fell down, pulling it up to his neck to cover himself. He was naked except for his undershorts, and it made him feel vulnerable - a new and strange irrational fear. He shouted at the door. "Who's there?!"

The door couldn't be locked. It was the way most cabin doors were on the _Karaboudjan_. But that fact had never given Tintin a cause for concern. Until now.

He immediately recognized the deep voice from outside. "It's me, Allan. May I come in?"

Tintin clasped the bedsheet so firmly he felt his nails dig into his palms. "I've got nothing to say to you! Leave me alone!"

"Tintin, my love, you needn't say anything. But I do. I want to apologize to you for what I did. Please, allow me in."

He stared at the door as though the wood itself had spoken.

"Sweetheart?" Another knock. "I want to apologize properly. What I did to you was horrible, I know it." Allan's voice sounded pleading, desperate.

Forgiveness. Wasn't it a powerful act, to grant that to someone? Tintin braced himself, inhaling deeply before he shouted, "Come in!"

Slowly the door opened and Allan stepped inside.  
Milou uttered a growl when he saw hin, but Tintin ordered the dog to stay quiet. Then he turned his attention to Allan, keeping hinself covered with the sheet and asking with as much dignity and seriousness as he could muster, "Well?"

"Oh, Tintin!" Allan held his palms out to him. "I made a terrible mistake!"

He was so good. So believable. Tintin wanted to believe it; wanted to believe those words so badly.

"I couldn't restrain myself. You were right, my darling - it's not you fault. Never was. It's solely mine. I'm a weak, ill-tempered, vile beast. I hurt you badly and I wish I could undo it. Please forgive me."

He knelt down in front of Tintin's bed so his face was on level with Tintin's knees, and gazed deeply into his eyes. An excellent theatrical performance. He attempted to take one of Tintin's hands but Tintin pulled away. So Allan just sat there, looking at him, and finally said, "Lad, I'm truly sorry. Please, forgive me."

Tintin kept his head high, hoping that the tension and fright in his body weren't evident under the bedsheet. "Yes", he said. "Okay. I forgive you."

Allan's face brightened, and he smiled. "Oh my love, you can't imagine how happy that makes me. Thank you!" He leaned forward to wrap his hands around Tintin's waist, but Tintin just manage to evade that possessive grip. No matter how many profuse apologies he delivered, that man would never touch him again!

Tintin's hostility caught Allan by surprise. He stared at him, apparently confused, then got up, and stood on his feet. "What's the matter, my love?"

"Don't call me that."

"What? But we- aren't we-?"

"No, we're not together. Not anymore. I've forgiven you but I'm not taking you back."

Allan stood there as though hit by lightning.

"Please leave now." It was becoming harder for Tintin to keep up his stern facade. His hands were shaking so he clenched them tighter.

There was silence, a long dreadful silence. Allan stood there, his tall figure towering over Tintin's huddled form on the bed, and stared at him with cold, blank eyes. "No."

The realization was even more painful than the ones Tintin had had before: Allan had not changed. He could not, would never change! He would do it again. Hurting Tintin, breaking and pillaging him.

Tintin did not need to think. This time he followed only his instinct. It was now or never!

In one swift motion he threw the bedsheet from hin and jumped toward the door, Milou following him fast as a bullet.  
But he had barely reached the handle when Allan reacted. Though slowed down by surprise Allan was still strong and pulled Tintin back with a firm grip around the boy's arm. Tintin was trapped, pressed close to his attacker. Milou barked.

He had to be quick! Tintin struggled, finally managing to ram his elbow in the torso behind him, causing the tough embrace to loosen temporarily. Allan groaned with pain, and Tintin ripped himself loose, again charging at the door. This time he swung it wide open -

\- but Allan had him again, and was now angrier than before. Holding Tintin in a headlock he grunted a curse, and uttered obscenities about what he'd do to him, that "goddamned slut, boy whore, I'll show you-! I'll show you!"

Allan's breath was hot and humid on his ear and neck, and he held Tintin so firmly that for a moment Tintin thought he'd lost the battle.

Then Allan screamed, releasing Tintin, who quickly realized that Milou had bitten the man's leg.

_Good dog! Wonderful job!_

He wanted to grab Milou and get the hell out of here, escape, scream for help. But Allan, in a bout of uncontrolled rage, kicked the dog out of the door, and slammed it shut. Tintin heard Milou howl and whimper, then bark angrily.

Then there was silence.

_Oh God, Milou, please get help fast, please!_

They stood facing each other, panting. The expression in Allan's eyes was deeply disturbing, and Tintin couldn't recall a moment when he had ever been more frightened. Here was a man - no, a monster! - who'd stop at nothing to take him by force, to humiliate and hurt him.

Who might even kill him.

There was no other option. Tintin attacked first, taking a swing to hit a conveniently painful place on his opponent's neck. But Allan's defense was quicker, and followed by a punch that sent Tintin tumbling against the wall, hitting his head hard.

Bright stars and lamps danced before his eyes. The room spun. Allan shouted something that sounded like "Tom!"

_Tom?!_

_Oh God, no!_

He instinctively jumped at Allan, going for a hard kick to his crotch-

\- but suddenly another man was there, and it was Tom, holding a long blunt object and Allan was shouting something.

The blow hit Tintin's head with full force, and for a second or so he felt as though he was afloat. Sounds faded. He still sensed the ungentle arms grabbing him, and the mattress on which he was thrown. Then everything blended into a comforting, endless black void.

.

.

.

Allan panted heavily, looking down upon unconscious Tintin on the bed. He lay there facedown, and after a moment of staring Tom gently turned Tintin's head sideways so he could still breathe.

"Damn tough little rascal, ain't he?" Tom grinned. "Good idea of ya t'keep me near." He looked at the boy, leering, licking his dry lips.

Allan nodded, still unable to speak. His stomach hurt, and his leg was bleeding. It was time for payback. That floozy would regret many things. Above all he'd regret rejecting him.

Allan would take what was his. He would show the slut who was boss. With narrowed eyes he stared at Tintin, his nostrils widening with each breath.

His reveries were interrupted when Tom asked, "Hey, boss? Can I go first?" He grinned, lecherous and excited.

Allan exhaled. Of course. He had promised Tom. Perhaps it was indeed best to let him take the lad first, while he himself sat back and enjoy the show. He needed a cigarette right now anyway to calm down. Yes, he had to calm down, get back to his senses. Then he'd be level-headed enough to fuck him properly. "All right." He waved his hand dismissively, and sat down, lighting a cigarette. "Have him."

Tom was beaming with excitement. He pulled down Tintin's underpants - a tantalizing sight, that little piece of fabric sliding down the lad's alabaster legs - to reveal the curves of his backside. Allan watched, not surprised that Tom could hardly wait. He was stroking himself hard, taking in the sight of Tintin's body in front of him.

A faint barking, then a scratching on the door made them both freeze. They looked at each other.

Outside, the dog bellowed.

„It's just the mutt", Allan said, inhaling and blowing a cloud of smoke into the air. „Don't mind it!" He signaled to Tom to nevermind, just get on with it, do him.

But then the dog's sounds were followed by a determined knock on the door.

„Tintin?" a deep voice said.

Allan almost dropped his cigarette.

„Tintin, are you in there?"

There was no doubt. It was Captain Haddock's voice.

„Shit", Allan cursed, and Tom repeated it, hastily stuffing his semi-erection back into his pants. „I don't believe this!" With shaky hands he draped the blanket over Tintin's body, and went to stand in a corner, looking nervously at Allan.

„I'm gonna come in, okay?" Haddock's voice from outside said. The door opened.

First the Captain did not seem to be able to progress the scene – Allan sitting there relaxed and smoking, Tom just standing there, and Tintin seemingly asleep on the bed – then he turned to his First Officer. „Allan?! What is going on here?"

„Shht, Captain." Allan whispered. „Let him sleep. It's been a long day."

Milou had positioned himself in front of Allan, growling with hostility.

Unfortunately Haddock wasn't fooled. One quick look at Tintin, one feeling hand on the boy's back was all it took to tell him the truth. „He's not asleep!" he shouted at Allan and Tom. „You- what did you – you abominable brutes! You knocked him out and violated him, you contemptible maggots!"

„Whoa, Captain." Allan was amazed how easily he kept his calm this time. „You really shouldn't make such unfounded accusations. This is not true. Here, look!" He pulled the blanket away, revealing Tintin's nudity, and squeezed the lad's behind. „There's nothing there. Not a trace. Of course, because we didn't do anything to him! C'mon, take a look. Feel it."

Haddock stared at Tintin's body for a few seconds, and Allan grinned. Of course! Any man, whatever his orientation, would at least pause and take a look at such a delectable sight. But he was not distracted for long. Pointing one finger at Allan he growled, „So perhaps you didn't, but you were planning to! I know what kind of man you are! The Marquis de Sade is a saint compared to you, you... _animal!_ This time you won't get away with it!"

Allan shrugged. „I still have no idea what you're talking about, Captain. There's no evidence of crime of any kind."

„Get out!" Haddock shouted, angrily waving a finger at both him and Tom. „Now! Get out before I lose my temper, you bodysnatching crooks! Mean gallows-fodder! Ostrogoths! You won't get away with this!"

.

.

.

Tintin's Diary – April 19th, 1932

_Allan's dark side has turned out to be more brutal than I could have ever imagined. I am proud to have fought back as I did, and I'm sure I could even have overpowered him with Milou's help, if it hadn't been for Tom. And yet I can't help but think if it would have been easier if I had simply surrendered, let them do what they wanted – perhaps they would hurt me less then. But I shouldn't think that! I did the right thing! Thanks to Milou's and the Captain's help they were prevented from violating me._

_At first when I awoke I wasn't sure what had happened. Even now my head still hurts and feels like bells are tolling inside it. Captain Haddock sat next to me on my bed and told me what Allan and Tom had planned. „Those miserable scumbags", he cursed under his breath, „they will pay for this! Tintin, I will make sure Allan will never touch you again."_

_I lifted my shoulders, as though to imply that all this was no big deal; but in reality I have little hope that Haddock will manage to keep Allan away from me. It is me who has to get away from this ship as soon as possible._

_I have to get out of here, or Allan will attack me again. This nightmare needs to end._

_._

_._

_._

Allan and Tom walked across the deck, back to their cabins. Tom looked disappointed and confused. „Boss?" he asked. „I don't unnerstand. I thought Tintin's _your_ boy? Why didja let the Captain throw ya out like that?"

Allan stopped in his tracks, giving Tom a long, serious look. „Tom, you gotta see how it is. Haddock still thinks he's Captain of his ship. But it is me who has the command here. It's me whom the crew respects. They listen to me, not to that drunkard. We have to let him keep the illusion, so it'll be a bigger surprise."

„What, a su'prise?" Tom asked dumbly.

„When I take over!" Allan replied impatiently. „Don't you get it? I'll bring him down. He won't be Captain no longer. Wait and see!"


	10. Chapter 10

After the incident which Captain Haddock had barely prevented from taking a worse turn he had offered Tintin a place to sleep in the Captain's cabin. It was one of the few cabins aboard the _Karaboudjan_ that could actually be locked, but Tintin had refused, hoping Haddock would understand. He found no reason to be suspicious of the Captain, but after his experience with Allan how could he trust his own judgment?

No, he would stay in his own cabin, whatever may happen, and let Milou keep watch. Haddock hadn't wanted to accept that at first. "He'll attack you again! You're not safe all on your own! Take at least this." He'd offered Tintin an old-fashioned revolver, small enough to fit into his hand, but Tintin had declined that offer as well. Using a weapon was a risk because it might be turned against him.

Captain Haddock had realized he was no match for Tintin's stubbornness. "Okay, lad, I hope you will be fine. I'll do my best to keep Allan away from you."

To Tintin's surprise Allan had not approached him in those three days since the incident. He seemed tense and preoccupied. Was he up to something?

Tintin and Haddock had also inspected the cargo together at a time when they could be sure not to arouse Allan's attention. And indeed! The first crab tin they had opened contained crabmeat, but several layers beneath all cans were chock full of opium.

Haddock had been astonished, then angry. Tintin did not need to hear any excuses from him – the Captain's expression spoke volumes, and it wasn't the face of a guilty man. This was someone who had been lied to and betrayed. He had been cheated by his First Officer, his ship having been used as a vehicle for crime.

How many more knew? Who of the crew was involved?

Tintin vowed he'd find out. It was a daunting and dangerous task, but he was burning with desire to discover a guilty party, to collect evidence that Allan was behind it all.

And so far he hadn't been able to find out much. Still too afraid to rummage through Allan's documents in his cabin he had only attempted – not too conspicuously – to interrogate some crew members, but no one seemed to know anything more than the vague rumour they'd heard.

It was during one quiet Sunday noon in late April when both Allan and his assistant Tom suddenly appeared at the lunch table where the entire crew had gathered around a Sunday meal.

Allan's tone was grave and serious when he announced the news, causing everyone to look at him in silence.

"Fellows, I hate to tell you this, but there has been evidence that our Captain has been involved in illegal substance trade, and will be arrested at the next port. As First Officer I will be the one in command of this ship from now. Apart from this formality nothing will change for you."

"No", one of the sailors cried out, astonished.

"Haddock!" another interjected. "Captain Haddock, a smuggler? I don't believe it!"

"No, this makes no sense!"

Tintin stared at Allan, shocked. This was the most horrible thing he'd heard from him so far, and he had absolutely not expected it. A decent, innocent man like the Captain had just fallen victim to the intrigues of a monster.

What to do? How could he prove otherwise? He had accomplished nothing!

But his anger gave him courage, and pointing one finger at Allan he blurted out, "You're lying! The Captain is innocent! It's _you_ who's smuggling opium!"

First Allan glared at him with unconcealed hostility, then he said, "And how do _you_ know it's opium, greenhorn? When did I say that? No, you know it, of course, because you're involved!"

"You're making this up", Tintin shouted, finding it increasingly difficult to keep his calm. "You lie-"

"And how are you involved?" Allan shot back with a leering grin. "Because you're Haddock's little catamite, that's why! You let him fuck you, and he trusts you with his plans – perhaps even pays you money like one would pay a whore! I'm not surprised you're defending him!"

Tom laughed but among the other men there was silence. Tintin dared not turn around to look at them for fear what he'd find in their expressions, so he just kept staring at Allan. All blood had left his face. Allan and Tom grinned at him, full of smug superiority. _How could they… how dare they-!_

But then a voice from the crew shouted, "Only a swine like you would even think of such things!" It was Damien Cohn, an electric and machine specialist from the Eastern United States, a tall, skinny man in clothes that were at least half his age. Some liked to tease him about the _kippa_ he wore but he always used that occasion to make clear that he wasn't someone to make fun of. Now he positioned himself in front of Allan in a broad-legged, defiant stance. "We all know you're into them boys, Mr Thompson. And it's disgusting. I'm sure it was _you_ who got involved with young Tintin, taking advantage of him!"

"That has nothing to do with this", Allan bellowed. "Stand back, Cohn! I forbid you to talk to your Captain in this tone!"

"You are not my Captain!" Cohn spat out. "A pervert like you will never be my boss!" He turned around to face the crew members. "Do you really want this pig to be in command, boys?"

Tintin looked at him, then at them, trembling and amazed. Here was someone who openly, confidently, defied Allan Thompson.

"No", another man replied. It was the sailor John Hartnell. "Not ever since young William killed himself." A hateful glance at Allan.

"Yeah, may he rest in peace. A decent lad, he was."

"Now, that's enough!" Allan shouted. "Listen to me! I have found proof that Haddock is a smuggler-"

" _Fake evidence!"_ Tintin interrupted him, encouraged by the insubordinate attitude of the others. "You just want to get rid of Captain Haddock and take over! And Mr Cohn is right – you are a pig! And what you're doing is mutiny!"

He mustn't stand around idly. What else was there to do but to alert the Captain? Taking advantage of the surprise effect Tintin turned around and ran.

"Hey", Allan shouted but made no attempt to hold him back. Instead, there was a loud clamoring of different voices that still echoed in Tintin's ears as he ran, across the deck, and half jumped, half stumbled down the steep metal stairs to the hallway where the Captain's cabin was located. But when he opened the door Haddock wasn't there.

Frantic, he rushed along the hallway, stopping at the open door of the radio room. There was the radio operator, looking intimidated at Haddock standing before him and waving documents while shouting curses, and then both turned heads, staring at Tintin.

"Captain, come quickly" Tintin shouted, his voice cracking. "It's Allan- he- he's rebelling! It's mutiny!"

The radio operator, a rat-faced young guy named John Torrington with a full head of fuzzy brown hair, was quite pale. "I swear", he stuttered, looking at Haddock, "of this I had no idea- I…."

"See him, Tintin?! This traitor here" – Haddock pointed at the radio operator – "pretends to have no idea what kind of cargo Allan was communicating about via radio!"

"I do now, sir! And I will testify, but you must keep me here, please, sir!" Torrington was close to crying. "I didn't want to disobey Allan, he was my boss, sir, and I had no idea…"

"Captain", Tintin shouted again, still short of breath. "You must stop Allan, right now! Come on! He's about to mutiny against you!"

Haddock growled a true curse. He looked back and forth between Tintin and Torrington as though trying to figure out what was going on, then he grabbed the radio operator by the collar. "You're coming with us!" Looking at Tintin, he said, "Okay, where's Allan?" He felt along the sides of his trousers as if to ascertain that he was armed. Most likely he carried that small revolver.

Tintin led them both to the dining-room but even before they arrived there he sensed that something was wrong.

It was the silence, he realized. The out-of-place, ominous silence. Were they not there any more?

Milou growled.

They were still out of sight but Tintin signaled to the Captain to stay quiet. Haddock reached into his pocket, taking out the revolver.

Stealthily they approached the dining-room with its open door. And again there were voices. A mix of shouts and whispers. Allan barking an order.

Haddock was not quite as fast and elegant as an English police officer but still agile enough to startle everyone when he rushed into the room, holding the gun in both hands and immediately pointing it at the presumed source of all trouble: his First Officer Allan Thompson.

Allan, too, was holding a gun.

Tintin gasped, realizing that Allan must have just threatened the entire crew with that gun in one desperate attempt to make them shut up and obey. Now he was pointing it at Haddock, who in turn was pointing the small revolver at Allan.

There was a stunned silence. Torrington had freed himself from Haddock's grip and hid behind Tintin, whimpering.

Allan spoke first. "Give up, Archibald. You're not in control anymore. Hell, you're not even in control of yourself! I know you. Don't make the mistake of shooting now – in your drunk state you can only miss. Drop the gun now."

" _You_ drop the gun!" Haddock's hands were slightly shaking, but as far as Tintin could tell he was completely sober. "I've got the evidence of your crime right here, and young Torrington is ready to testify against you!"

"I'm sorry, sir", the radio operator whined.

"It's a lie", Allan hissed. " _You_ are the smuggler!"

"As Captain I order you to drop the weapon right now!" Haddock bellowed.

Allan did not move, and Tintin observed him closely, holding his breath. Everyone was just waiting for the first shot to fall. Adrenaline rushed through his veins, heightening his senses.

He detected the signs in Allan's face, the tightening of the mouth and narrowing of the eyes that told of a decision –

" _Down_ ", Tintin screamed and pounced on the Captain, throwing him back with his entire weight – which wasn't much, but with sheer force he actually managed to push Haddock over, and they both fell onto the ground in the same moment the gunshot fell.

Someone screamed.

The next thing Tintin knew was he was lying atop Haddock who was clasping his arm, and there was blood soaking his navy blue woolen sweater in the shoulder area. Milou barked wildly. There were shouts among the men, and with sudden distress Tintin noticed that the Captain's revolver was gone.

Two of the sailors rushed toward Haddock, holding him upright, trying to assess the damage of the injury. Panicking, Tintin looked for the gun. Where was it? Had someone taken it-?

At that moment the next shot fell.

Allan screamed.

Tintin turned around and for a moment could not process what had happened. Allan had sunk to the floor. In front of him stood that worker, Damien Cohn, holding Haddock's revolver. "This is for William", he shouted. His face was reddened with rage, and he held the revolver pointed at Allan.

"Cohn", someone shouted, "what are you doing, for the love of God-"

The entire crew of about twenty men was staring at the scene. Someone were clearly disturbed, but others encouraged Cohn to "kill the bastard!"

Allan had been shot in the leg which he clasped desperately with shaky hands, blood seeping through from between his fingers, and Damien Cohn kept the gun pointed at him. Tears glistened in his eyes.

"Cohn, stop it", Haddock uttered between groans of pain. "He'll be… arrested! Don't… kill him!"

"He deserves it!" Cohn's voice was cracking, and he waved the revolver at Allan. "He ruined young Will's life! He's a filthy pederast!"

"Tom, help me", Allan breathed, almost doubling over from the pain. His face had taken on the color of skim milk.

Tom stood among the crew, his gaze locked to the floor. "I'm sorry, boss. But I ain't nothin' to do with this no more."

"You traitor", Allan panted, and for the first time there was not anger and hate in his voice, but dismay.

 

Tintin's Diary – July 3rd, 1932

_Three months have passed since Allan's unsuccessful mutiny. Sometimes I wonder if he truly had no idea how unpopular he was. How can a rebellion work if you've got no one who truly supports you? They really hated Allan a lot more than I'd ever have guessed._

_Of course. They've been under his command a lot longer than me. Perhaps I should've spoken up. Perhaps others should've spoken up. But what Allan did, and most of that is pure speculation, isn't something one talks freely about. So far only Damien, Cohn, the brazen rebel, has told me his story. He'd been in love with that young sailor William who'd thrown himself overboard six years ago. Cohn had been jealous when Will had an affair with Allan, and inconsolable when the boy committed suicide. His hatred for Allan had flourished ever since._

_When it comes to crimes of a sexual nature no one actually wants to testify against Allan. Not even I feel a desire to recount my story as a victim and witness. But the others have assured me they'll gladly support the evidence of Allan's smuggling activities; the most important of them all being the radio operator John Torrington who has communicated, in sloppily coded words, everything from and to Allan's opium trade partners._

_Captain Haddock's injury has healed well. Not quite a grazing shot to the shoulder but the bullet has not hit any vital arteries._

Tintin's Diary – January 15th, 1933

_It's over! Finally it's over!_

_Allan Thompson has been found guilty of drug smuggling behind the back of his Captain. It was a long and tedious trial. The evidence was barely sufficient but everyone aboard the Karaboudjan was determined to testify and bring Allan to jail. "I've never seen someone abuse the trust of his superior in such a way", the judge had said before condemning Allan to a prison sentence of seven years._

_How small and vulnerable he had looked sitting there on the cold wooden bench in the courtroom, crushed by the weight of the verdict. Tom and the radio operator, too, each got one year for their assistance with the crime. None of them objected._

_Captain Haddock is still drinking. The disappointment in his First Officer has been a lot to take for him, I guess. But he is drunk less often, a lot less. He says I inspire him to do better._

_He's a wonderful man. The crew actually respects him – not fearing him as they did with Allan. The only one who still holds a grudge is Damien Cohn, disgruntled because he didn't get to shoot Allan whom he still hates._

_Sometimes Haddock still makes my heart beat faster. He is quite attractive, more so than Allan, and sometimes I fantasize about how it would be to sleep with him. Surely he would be a gentleman in bed – loving and attentive as he usually treats me but never going beyond the border of friendship._

_I'm fully content with that. In that sort of relationship I can feel safe._


End file.
